Despite my son’s knowledge of the pregnancy, he never told a soul. Our family and closest friends knew about it, but it was not common knowledge. Without even encouraging a 4 year old to keep it to himself, he did. It was simply “our news”.
Six weeks after I found out I was pregnant, I started spotting. That was the way the miscarriages started. I called my doctor, not wanting to hear the inevitable. He couldn’t see me until the next day. It was a long evening.
We had pictures taken for the pictorial directory at church that night. I didn’t want to take the picture. I knew every time I looked at that picture I would be reminded that was day I knew I would lose my baby.
What happened to that little prophesy? Where was my faith? Why was I so quick to give it up? Well, I had walked this road before. I knew how it went. You get pregnant. You get excited. You start to bleed. You wind up in the doctor’s office where he tells you how sorry he is and schedules you a D and C for the following day. To say I was distraught would have been an understatement. I had my boy. I guess he would have to be enough for me.
I prayed, “You said it was OK that I have a baby, didn’t you? Didn’t you? Why would you say that if it wasn’t true? And why isn’t it OK?”
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