February
25.
The
long-awaited day.
My
birthday.
It was a
relatively uneventful birthday, if I didn’t count the increasing frequency of
contractions, the persistent discomfort, and the disheartening feeling that I
was coming down with some illness.
Then there
was the very noticeable decrease in the baby’s activity level.
Chris and
Parker made a drug store run and returned with birthday cards, a cheesy
paperback novel, a six-pack of cupcakes, and an adorable little pot of
happy-looking yellow chrysanthemums Parker personally selected.
But things
just didn’t feel right physically. (I know; “things” hadn’t been right
physically for months, but this was different, far removed from what had become
my “normal.”)
I had a
slightly elevated fever, ached all over, and—even though I rolled back and
forth and contorted myself as much as I dared—a comfortable position remained
elusive. Chris and Parker helped me celebrate with the cupcakes and then left
me alone to devour the book.
Nothing
like spending your thirty-seventh birthday in bed, a monitor Velcroed around
your midsection and a mindless story to keep you company.
The day
didn’t improve. By that evening, it was necessary to strap on the monitor every
hour instead of the customary three or four times a day, and consume orange
juice to see if that might stimulate baby movements. I drank and moved, and was
consumed by a gnawing fear that even after everything we’d been through the
past eight months—every precious minute for which we’d fought so hard and been
so single-minded about—the baby might die in utero, succumbing to umbilical
cord strangulation, infection, or another unforeseen problem. My anxiety level
ratcheted up several notches, which wasn’t good for anybody.
Thankfully,
the orange juice did the trick. Within thirty minutes, the baby wiggled and twisted—but
with significantly less energy than usual.
Monitoring
continued throughout the night, which meant that particular night was sleepless
for me. To make matters worse, I became frightened and agitated when the baby
didn’t awaken at its appointed time.
It was
another “I can’t take it any more” episodes. Carefully swinging my legs to the
floor, I paced to the bathroom—more for something to do and someplace to go
than for real need. On the return trip (of nearly four steps) I stopped at the
side of my bed, sank desperately and gingerly to my knees, reached reflexively
across the bed and planted my face in the mattress.
First
raking the sheets with my fingernails then reactively, unconsciously, clenching
the threadbare material tightly in my fists, I cried out for mercy. “Oh, God, I
know I’ve asked you many times for a sign, but, please … just one more time
… to know the baby I’m carrying is still alive! Right now! I really need that assurance again!
“I know I
don’t deserve it. I know my faith continues to waffle and fail, and I am so very sorry for my weakness. But please don’t let anything happen to this
baby. Not now, Lord. Not now!”
I sobbed
into the sheets and mattress. Every millimeter of my body trembled
uncontrollably. “Just one little movement is all I need. All that I’m seeking,”
I finished in a gasping whisper.
Gritting my
teeth, realizing I had nothing more to say, I slowly gathered my distended
frame from my slumped and spent position and crawled into bed. To await that
sign. That precious, anxiety-snapping movement. That little jerk of a foot, a
slight punch of a fist that would enlighten me to the status of the baby suspended
within my womb. Will it ever come? How
long will the Lord expect me to wait?
My breath
caught.
There they were. I wasn’t
imagining them.
Brief, unmistakable
twitches.
My hand
flew to my abdomen. I reflexively sucked a gulp of air into my stiffened lungs.
Tears flowed like an unleashed torrent as I finally allowed the emotional dam
to rupture, as I repeatedly thanked God for providing evidence of life.
And there I
was. Again. Promising that I’d not put Him to the test … again; that I’d fully
trust His assurances and faithfulness.
Joyfully,
ecstatically, gratefully patting my stomach, I rolled to one side and gathered
my blankets protectively to my chest. With a renewed knowledge of God’s gentle
mercy tucked into my heart, I settled into several hours of joyful,
uninterrupted, blessed sleep.
He’d given
me the sweetest birthday present I’d ever received.
But He
wasn’t done demonstrating His power.
On the
contrary. He was just getting started.
_________________________________
NEXT
WEEK: The hair-raising ride to the end begins…
_________________________________
Until next week,
Thanks for joining me!
Blessings,
Andrea
Cupcakes: photo credit: <a
href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/rottnapples/5362318849/">rottnapples</a>
via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a
href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>
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