A year ago, I had surgery to have
my tumor removed. It was two weeks before Christmas. I was 23 weeks
pregnant.
I remember the gnawing anxiety
that morning, going through the motions – the ride to the hospital, checking in
and the IV, being transported all over the hospital. The first stop was
Breast Health, then Nuclear Medicine, then back to pre-op to talk to Anesthesia
and have OB check me. I was scared to be put to sleep, more than I ever
was. I said a prayer for baby, and as I did many times before, asked him
to stay with me.
When I awoke, the first sensation
I had was the doppler on my belly checking for the fetal heart rate. And
then I let myself rest.
This morning, as I snuggled
with Eli, I held him close, reminded of that day. I brushed my fingers across his rosy cheeks and his button nose, and swept his hair back across his
forehead, a gesture I learned that would comfort him when he was a
newborn. I marveled at him, our sweet, incredible baby boy, the rainbow
after our loss only two years ago, and then pulled him as close as he would let
me to give him kisses. Once again I said a prayer of thanks to our
awesome God for being with me that day and always, for staying even
though I didn't realize then it was Him I was asking, for working that miracle
so close to Christmas, for showing me again and again what faith feels like.
Every now and then, that anxiety
comes back... that feeling of helplessness, the fear that Eli was impacted by
my surgery or treatments, or having to come early. But then he looks at
me, his eyes so bright and his smile so wide, and the unbidden thoughts start
to recede and the dread subsides. Instead, I try to think of this day,
because it was a day I had to trust, and believe, and be so ever thankful.
