You Think You Know Everything, Right?

You’ve had three babies, so you must know everything about pregnancy and childbirth, right?

Wrong.

Rewind…

Two young sons, ages four and one, wait with their grandparents, while your husband rushes you to the hospital to deliver your third son. Baby number three is born on that crisp November day. And to your utter astonishment, you deliver a happy, healthy baby girl, not another boy.

Elation drips over you, melting like warm butterscotch, oozing in and out your pours. There is nothing you wouldn’t agree to in that moment of Heaven, even a procedure, ending the possibility of future pregnancies. With two beautiful sons and now a baby girl, it would be selfish to ask for more, wouldn’t it?

Fast forward…

Life moves onward, but you don’t.

Can’t.

Something is missing. A piece of you—that piece which God put there connecting you to the miracle of creation and which one of your close friends doesn’t have. You’ve seen her tears over her infertility. You took your gift for granted and simply threw it away.

Guilt replaces what should be a joyous time. Regret. You can’t sleep, torn. But you have all you can handle, raising three children under the age of five. You seek solutions through friends and the passing of time. There is no comfort. So you do the only thing you can think of to find peace.

After months of testing for both you and your hubby, and countless ways to raise money, you undergo a Tubal Ligation Reversal. Not so much to have another child, but to be open to the possibility, the natural cause of events. The procedure is far more risky than most people think.

You survive. Eight weeks to recover. It’s hard and long. Most people who know you think you’re insane for doing this. But you have your peace. And another surprise. Two short weeks later, you become pregnant with baby number four.

Only there are problems: Placenta Previa, Pre-eclampsia, and bleeding. Too much of it. The doctor says ‘miscarriage.’ OMGosh!! Miscarried???

The word won’t enter your brain. Or your heart. You’ve had three healthy pregnancies. You did this. You had the surgery. How could this happen?

You go to the office for an ultrasound. You lay back on the table. The gel is cold against your belly, still bloated with the appearance of life. The doctor rolls the scope over your skin. Your eyes glaze over. You stop breathing. Mournful tears trickle from the covers of your eyes.

The doctor stares at the monitor. His eyes widen, lips separating. You want to slam your palms against your ears, not ready to hear the truth.

“All be damned. The baby is right here,” the doctor says as he turns the monitor towards you.

There, in all glory, is your tadpole-looking blob on the ultrasound. Your baby. You didn’t miscarry. The doctor shows you a strange tear inside your placenta, which apparently healed on its own. Unexplainable, the doctor thinks out loud.

The following months are excruciating. Bed rest. Bloating. Cramps and constant fear the bleeding will start again.

On an eerie night of an eclipse, your water will break. Over two weeks early. You’ll be passing blood. You’ll be terrified. You will crawl back into bed, telling your hubby you’re not going.

You won’t breathe, your only thought: I can’t lose this baby.

The labor will be quick and strong. Your mother will be there, telling you you’re doing a good job. But you’ll know something is wrong.  She won’t listen, neither does the nurse. Until your contractions stop.

The baby will be posterior, face up and stuck and struggling. On hands and knees, you’ll move to free the baby from your pelvis. You’ll be exhausted but determined. It will work, only the baby will be coming. Right now. Something will still feel wrong.

Your hubby will hold your hands as you bare down to push. Your mother will wipe your forehead with a cool towel. The nurse will step out of the way as the doctor arrives. A moment later your new bundle of joy will be lying prostrate in the doctor’s palm.

He won’t move. Or breathe. His coloring will be gray.

The doctor will be still. You’ll beg to know why your baby is not crying. The look on your mother’s face will be horrifying. The grip from your hubby’s embrace will disappear.

“We have a true knot baby,” the doctor will say, his face downcast.

You’ll have no idea what this means, other than your baby is not making any noise. “What?” you’ll hear yourself ask, but it doesn’t sound you.

The cord will be cut. The baby still won’t move. Mumbling will rumple the doctor’s lips, as he gently rubs the baby’s newly-born chest. You’ll scream. Your mother will weep. The doctor will grow frantic. Then, another surprise.

The baby’s chest will warm to a soft pink color, deepening and shooting to his limbs. He will fill with a vibrant glow. And finally, cries.

The doctor will stare at you. “Your baby tied a knot in his umbilical cord, cutting off the oxygen and sustenance you supplied. True knot babies are usually stillborn. I believe we just witnessed a miracle.”

Your emotions will un the gamut from joyous to fear to awe. But the one thing you will be certain of, you have one heck of a little fighter in your life, now.

You will wrap your miracle in your arms. You will be changed forever.