Spring was giving way to summer in late May of 2003; I had just celebrated my 22nd birthday, and had spent the past six months enjoying the newlywed season with my beloved. A onset of symptoms (such as seemingly constant fatigue and the undeniable need to empty my bladder in mock speed intervals) had prompted the ribbing of my coworkers, who claimed to be convinced that I was with child. My beloved and I were not trying to conceive, and had only recently made the decision to stop trying not to.
Off to the doctor went I, list of symptoms in hand. Outwardly wanting to come back with some reasonable diagnosis of a common malady that would quite the banter of my coworkers, yet secretly supposing I would return relishing in the blissful news that I was indeed expecting. Neither turned out to be the case.
After answering a litany of other inquiries, the doctors questioned the possibility of pregnancy. I answered in the affirmative, and they sent off for blood work. Young and naive as I was, it never occurred to me that they would have tested said blood for a host of physical aliments, but not for the pregnancy they had seemed to suspect. When the doctor returned to inform me that my only medical crisis was that I was suffering from chronic depression, I was shocked to say the least. All of the symptoms I had approached him with were physical. When he questioned if I were experiencing feelings of sadness or unexplained bouts of crying, I had assured him that was not the case. I was experiencing a very exciting, happy season of life, and could not understand why he was diagnosing me with depression. He insisted that I must be suppressing my emotions, thus causing the physical symptoms. He prescribed me a strong anti-depressant medication and sent me home with a referral to see a psychiatrist.
Oh, if only I had listened to that still, small voice inside of me before it was too late! I read the label on the medication, warning against ingestion by pregnant women. Something in me told me not to take it... but I had swallowed half of the first dose before coming to my senses enough to flush the remainder of the bottle.
Feeling miserable, with pain I believed to be associated with my normal cycle, was no excuse for shirking my shift at the nursing home a couple days later. While lifting a heavy patient out of his wheelchair, I felt and heard a painful "pop" and had to beeline for the Ladies room. Something was definitely not right.
I left work early and called my darling mother to meet me at the hospital. (This was back in the days when my beloved was working over two hours away from home) The frigid female doctor there looked at me in disgust, obviously irritated that I was taking up so much of her valuable time, and exclaimed "You are just having a period. You are just young, and don't know that periods can feel different each month. That is all it is. Beings you came to the ER, now we have to do blood work." Followed by a roll of the eyes that made me feel like she'd rather be scraping scum off of her shoe. They walked me to the end of the hall, and left me still in pain to wait with my mother in a small room facing out over a beautiful pine baby crib, complete with giant stuffed animals.
The frigid doctor returned to quip hastily at me "Well, I guess you were pregnant, looks like you had a miscarriage." Her tone only softened a molecule as she witnessed the tears well up in my eyes. "You will have to make an appointment with a OBGYN now." With that she walked out, only pausing to hand me a re feral to see an OB who just happened to be the same doctor my mom uses as her regular lady doctor.
Terrified of any type of surgical procedure, I was relieved when the OB did not mention the need for me to have a D/C procedure. In fact, he told me I was "good to go." My fear of surgery prevented me from seeking a second opinion, despite the urging from several more mature female friends at church who had "been there, done that" and could tell something was desperately wrong. As time time on, I became more and more sickly. My skin was pale, and I began having frequent dizzy spells, often fearing that I would pass out. For me, this sickness, combined with the heaviness of my heartache was now a way of life.
September brought joy to our hearts as I delighted in a positive home pregnancy test. Immediately upon receiving confirmation via a blood test at the family doctor, my beloved whisked me off to tell my employer I would not be returning to work. We were terrified, and were not going to take any chances with this child. (After all, I had been at work lifting when I felt the "pop" the night we lost Jaime)
The first sonogram, however, squashed that joy. I was estimated to be about 9 weeks or so along, and the hormone levels were very low. The technician refused to answer any questions, and left the room to get a doctor. I soon learned that it is never a good sign when they say they are going to go get a doctor! "My" doctor, the same one I was refereed to when we lost Jaime months before, didn't feel the need to speak to me in person. He did however, want explain the situation to be via the telephone. There I was, in the middle of the busy radiology building, being scolded like a toddler over the phone by someone with a degree who obviously thought I was lacking brain cells. To everyone else, this obviously wasn't that big of a deal, so I was desperately trying to keep my answers short. This was not good enough for him, however. He kept asking me "Do you know what this means?" and then making me explain to him, over and over, that I was probably going to loose this baby, too. my guess is so that I couldn't go into denial later and claim I didn't know the graveness of the situation.
The nurse at my scheduled check up with him the next week was shocked when he refused to allow her to do any blood work or anything on me. His reason? "We'll just see what happens." It was at this point that I finally wizened up and took the advice of those dear friends who had been urging me to find another OB.
I knew the moment I stepped into to Dr. Haij's office that I had made the right decision. They entire staff was warm, understanding and courteous. The doctor prescribed progesterone to even out my hormone levels, ordered me onto a moderate bed rest, and was genuinely trying his best to save my baby.
While home alone watching a sitcom two weeks later, however, a feeling came over me that I will never forget. There was not yet any cramping, no bleeding, nothing physically wrong with me. Yet I felt the life that had been living inside of me begin to fade away. This was it. Jesse was dying. I turned the television off and began to sing and talk to my unborn child. I explained how much Daddy and Mommy loved him, and how much that I knew Jesus loved him too. I prayed that he wasn't feeling pain. Then I just sat for hours, rocking the dying child in my womb with silent tears falling down my face.
Explaining the previous evening's events to my beloved upon his return from work the next morning made me feel insane. Surely the incident was merely the over-reaction of a hormonal and paranoid pregnant lady. My Beloved, however, did not dismiss my feelings. He insisted instead that I make an emergency appointment with Dr. Haij. The dear friend who had recommended him to me rushed to accompany me to the appointment, as my beloved had just returned from a twelve hour work shift, and was looking forward to another one that evening.
Dr. Haij ordered a sonogram, during which the technician was awkwardly very silent. He left the room to "go get a doctor' and left me alone on the cold examine table for what felt like an eternity. While waiting, I was flooded with a sense of peace that I had never before felt. It was the moment I learned what the bible is talking about when it says "peace that passes all understanding." I began to quiet sing "Amazing Grace" and though the words were coming from my lips, it felt as if I was being sung to. It was as if I could feel the arms of my Heavenly Father, rocking me and telling me that I would get through this.
Sure enough, Dr. Haij brought me the sad news that Jesse had indeed passed away, and that I would soon be suffering another miscarriage. He prompted me to schedule a D/C for early the next morning, but I stubbornly refused. What if the sonogram was wrong? It would be as if I'd had an abortion, I reasoned. He assured me that was not the case, but I still just couldn't go through with it. If I was going to lose this child, I was going to let my body do it naturally, as it had before. My thought process was that this would assuage me of the guilt scheduling a D/C would bring.
I went home and immediately got to work. I cleaned the house top to bottom, lugging the heavy vacuum cleaner up and down the steps multiple times. I baked pies for the event at church. I stayed as active as I could, hoping both to keep my mind off of the ever increasing physical and emotional pain, as well as secretly hoping to propel my body into action so that I would be able to avoid the surgery.
By the time we arrived at the church's pie sing the following evening,I was feeling quite miserable. That wasn't going to stop me, though. My beloved was youth pastor, and I knew that I needed to be strong, to show the kids that it is possible to serve the Lord in the midst of personal tragedy.
We headed over to dad and mom's after the church function to drop off the turkey my mom was set to prepare for Thanksgiving, just two days away. My pain was becoming worse by now, and the bleeding was quite heavy. I tried to hold things together as we said goodbye to both dad and mom, who actually left before we did, as they both had to go work the night shift. One last trip to the bathroom before we left, and I had to call my beloved in to prop me up so that I would not faint, as I passed clot after clot, some as large as a baseball. Shortly after my beloved got me safely downstairs to the sofa, I began to experience symptoms of shock. Not willing to wait on an ambulance, my beloved packed me into the car, practically having to carry me, and rushed me to the hospital in Baltimore. I'll never forget being embarrassed by the trail of blood as we made our way down the long corridor towards labor and delivery. While my beloved filled out the necessary insurance paper work, I asked to use the rest room. What happened next, I'm not so sure. The next thing I remember, I am on the floor with cheap paper towels, in the futile attempt to clean up the blood that was now splattered all over the floor, the walls, the commode, the sink and somehow even the bathroom mirror. I came out apologizing profusely for the mess, and they whisked off to the OR, where I was somehow able to convince them not to put me to sleep. (I think using the excuse of all the pie I had eaten at the church function earlier!)
I'll never forget the look on that nurse's horrified face. She glanced down at me as my legs were in the stirrups and grabbed the doctor's arm "Look!" she said, pointing at me fully exposed, spread eagle in stirrups. The doctor's eyes widened as he uttered a quick "we'll take care it" in response to the nurse. He shot her a look that clearly said "hush up, you're scaring the girl!" Oftentimes have I wondered what was so unusual about what two people who perform such procedures on a daily basis saw that night. I was too afraid to ask, even as the questions loomed in my mind weeks later at the follow up appointment.
My suspicion is that there were two babies there. I never had a D/C after loosing Jaime, and never passed the body during the bleeding. I believe having his lifeless body inside of me had caused infection, thus explaining why I felt so ill for so many months. I believe that infection may have cost Jesse his life. I also believe that maybe the Lord allowed me to conceive Jesse in order to spare my health, possibly my life. Of course this is all speculation. The quest to search for answers would undoubtedly prove painful and futile, therefore these things have I left to ponder within my heart.
The months following proved traumatic for me. I began to have panic attacks, so severe that the sound of an airplane flying overhead would send me into an hysterical meltdown. I could not close my eyes without seeing visions of horrible things; train crashes, volcano eruptions, death and destruction everywhere. Unlike when the doctor had misdiagnosed me at the beginning of my first pregnancy, I now truly was in a depression. Sure wish I hadn't have flushed those meds, now!
I am not sure of exactly when or how the Lord brought me out of that scary season in life, but I do know that it was only through His grace that I was able to emerge from that with grace and dignity. My source of strength, my source of hope, is Christ alone.
On May 10th of 2004, I saw the sonogram image of virile little boy within my womb. I remember thinking that never before had I seen a spinal cord so straight and perfect! He was strong, healthy and wiggling all around. Still, the remainder of the pregnancy was excruciatingly frightening. My beloved and I analysed every single move I made, every bite of food I put into my body. We could not bear the thought of loosing this little boy (dubbed "little cub" after our favorite children's book) we had come to love him so dearly already. On October 12th, 2004 Stephen Kaleb Lewis was born. He was perfectly healthy and absolutely beautiful. It was blatantly obvious to me that this was no ordinary little boy. This is someone whom the Lord has big plans for. Raising him was going to be an enormous responsibility. Never before had I experienced such a rush of emotion! Just holding him was out of this world! The birth announcements went out with this verse printed on them:
Psalm 30:5 "For his anger endureth for a moment; in his favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
Three years later, that marvelous little guy became big brother to a set of twins with an absolutely amazing birth story. Graciously we watched the hand of God move in my body to prepare a way for them. My children are purpose for being. This is what I was meant to do. I don't always do it perfect, sometimes I don't even do it well, but I am doing what I was called to do. Raising these boys up to men who love and serve the Lord. I will never understanding why the Lord counted me worthy to be called of such a loft vocation, but I am so very grateful. I am blessed beyond measure.
*God bless anyone who actually took the time to ready this whole thing!*
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