“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but this one isn’t going to make it,” the obstetrician said casually as he looked at the black and white image on the screen in the ultrasound room.
“Burst my bubble?” I thought. More like break my heart into a hundred pieces.
This doctor was just the guy on call, not my regular doctor, the doctor with whom I’d walked through autoimmune disease and infertility with. This doctor had no way of knowing that the little bean shaped embryo he so easily dismissed was nothing short of a miracle to me.
I had wound up in the doctor’s office that day due to some irregular pregnancy symptoms. The doctor explained that the baby’s heart rate was too slow, that the growth was insufficient, and that in his medical opinion, it wasn’t a matter of if--just a matter of when--I would lose this baby.
I left crushed in spirit, bruised in heart, bleeding in body.
I look at my girl; she is 10 years old now. I watch as she dances; she seems to float through the air. People tell me she is so joyful, so full of life. Her smile is as bright as her eyes are crystal blue cool. I remember how that doctor’s words hurt me. I remember my weeping prayers that God would heal and spare her. And He did. I give thanks to the Lord, for He is good and His Love endures forever.
July 30, 2010
It was a scheduled check up. We were there for our routine ultrasound, at 18 weeks gestation, the “find out if it is a boy or girl” appointment. This pregnancy, our fourth, had been so normal. No hint of trouble or complication.
The ultrasound began and I saw my baby on the screen, but immediately noticed the absence of the thing I had grown so used to seeing during these exams--a tiny flicker in the chest. Hoping against hope, I said to the technician, “the heart’s not beating.” She was quiet for a moment before she replied. “Sarah, we have a problem with this baby…”
He was born hours later, beautiful but still. In the time between the doctor’s office and my arrival at Carolinas Medical Center, I prayed with all my might. I spoke words of life and healing over this baby. I recalled the stories of resurrection and told the Lord of all the ways I would share the testimony of this child if He would just bring him back to life.
This time, I did not get the outcome I hoped for. Instead I held my son’s lifeless body in my hands and cried out in pain that was unimaginable to me just the day before.
In the four years that have passed, I have learned that my son Matthew’s story is as important to my faith as my daughter Jordan Lily’s. In this life we will experience miracles and joy beyond measure. We will also experience the suffering of a broken world and a longing for all to be made right.
What I have learned is that Jesus is present in both. The miraculous and the heart-wrenching. He is the One who can hold us in all places of mystery, the places we are beyond ourselves. Because He is, we are never alone.
Losing my son has cultivated a deeper sense of compassion and empathy in me. Because I have known great suffering, I am now better equipped to serve others with His love. It’s not a lesson I would have chosen willingly. And yet, I am grateful. God is still good and His Love endures forever.
