"Into your hands I commit my spirit; deliver me, LORD, my faithful God." -Psalm 31:5
I wasn't really dreading the doctor's visit but I did feel apprehensive. I brought Emi with me to relieve some of the tension of waiting for results and hearing the news again. She proved to be a great companion.
I looked around the waiting room at all of the other women with their bulging bellies, some of them most definitely further along than I, but others with just a hint that life was growing in them. There is something so comforting about being in this waiting room, knowing that all of the women know, or will know what you are going through. No one stares at you with pity because of how life will be radically different. No one uninvitingly touches your belly or says things like, "You're huge, are you having twins?" No, we all glance in each other's direction, half-smiles, because we all share the same secret love for a child that we have all been hoping for.
When they called my name after waiting an eternity, I drudgingly stepped on the scale. Up another two pounds. I'll never get used to that. Emi charmed the nurses sitting at their desks and going about their daily tasks. Three Dora stickers, just for being cute.
We walked the long corridor and turned into a dark room with the awkward OB table and it's scary looking stirrups. I stared at the blank screen, wondering what news it would reveal today. As I clumsily got up on the bed, I whispered a quiet prayer and held a strong face so Emi wouldn't worry. Today we would come up with a plan for our little guy. We would do our best to decide his safest entry into our world.
Sitting there, I wondered how many women received devastating news on this bed, watching dreams shattered on a black and white screen. I'm wired to minimize the situations in my life, compare them to the heartache others suffer that are greater than mine. But as I lay there, without my husband -- my rock -- I couldn't help but turn my attention to the fact that I felt so alone, so scared.
As the ultrasound tech swished that blasted, warm goo around and the scanner touched my child's temporary home, I took a deep breath. She was silent, with no expression. She didn't smile or make eye contact with me. She just kept moving it around on my stomach, clicking on the keys and taking measurements. Does she even know why I'm here? Does she know that this Mama is dying inside, waiting for more bad news? Couldn't she just spit it out, tell me the truth quickly? Knowing is better than wondering, right?
As soon as these words were jotted in my head she began to point to the screen, there was my little boy's profile. My heart swelled. What a handsome little thing. As handsome as white lines and gray nothingness can be. There is his heart, pumping well. Emi ran to the machine as she heard her brother's heartbeat in surround sound. "This is the cord..." she said, "...let me just...hmmm." Is it wrapped two times now? Three? Is he not getting the oxygen he needs? "I'm not sure how," this twenty-something bearer of news, says, "but the cord is no longer wrapped around his neck."
Are you sure? I asked in my head. And almost as if she had heard my thoughts, she responded with, "You have a healthy, baby boy in there. And a cord that is completely out of harm's way."
I've learned to guard my emotions, somewhat, living on the mission field for eight years. But tears streamed quietly down my face. Only Emi noticed them and she rushed over to ask if I was alright. That little thing has a sixth-sense, I swear, she knows when someone can use a comforting touch.
The tech printed off a plethora of photos and Emi squealed with glee as she glanced through them all. "That's my bruhver," she would say.
Yes, it is, my sweet girl...our miracle baby. And our God has been faithful once again.