After previously giving you a small glimpse into the nuance of pregnancy-after-loss that is anxiety, I wanted to share with you a longer snippet: the account I wrote of my first ultrasound with Sweet Teen, many months ago now. But still fresh in my mind. This is a way to share with you some of the very real anxieties mixed with joys. To give you a more long-winded version of one short experience, in a long series of appointments, milestones, and months of pregnancy.

This happened when our baby boy was only seven weeks old. I’ve held babies that age in the palm of my hand before.
And I call this, First Look:

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FIRST LOOK

Mommy, where are you going? I heard you say Grandmama was coming over today. Why? My little-big boy asks. I breathe deep, and kind of chuckle to myself seeing my husband leave the room—I wonder if he is standing in the next room listening in, or if he is avoiding hearing the conversation, or if he even heard the question in the first place. To me, all of a sudden my ears are ringing and my palms are getting a little sweaty. Another sigh, and I step close to my son. I kiss him on the head and I smile at him. Do you remember the special camera that gets put on Mommy’s tummy when there is a baby inside? The one that lets us see into the secret places where God does some of His most amazing work? And we get to take little peeks at our babies? My son’s eyes get big and he says, I love that machine Mommy! I love getting to see our babies! Do you get to go see our baby today? I smile at him, Yes honey, we get to see our baby. But remember—this is the first time seeing this baby, so we technically don’t know what is going on inside Mommy. Remember how sometimes, in the past, I have come home from appointments to tell you that God said yes, and other times God has said no? Well, we don’t know what God is doing, so we just get to keep praying for life and hoping for big miracles. He smiles at me, hugs my tummy tight, reassures me that he will be praying all day, and reminds me that God is good when He says yes and He is also good when He says no.

The faith of a child. I understand Jesus calling us to become like children in our faith.
My son preaches to me with his words and his eyes.

My frame was not hidden from You,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in Your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.
Psalm 139:15-16

Hours drag. Nerves bubble up.
I drink a big bottle of Perrier—I am supposed to drink over thirty ounces of water anyway, so it might as well be the good fizzy stuff that settles my topsy-turvy tummy.

My mother arrives just as I have braided my hair, put on a cozy sweater, and put on makeup. I avoid mascara, but take a leap of faith and go ahead with eyeshadow and eyeliner anyway. If I end up bawling my eyes out, it won’t be too bad that way, but at least I feel prettier with some sparkle above my nervous eyes—and if I am going to be a nervous wreck, I might as well be a pretty one.

I kiss my three little children goodbye. I remind my oldest that he can be praying, and that I am proud of him for being such a brave boy, such a faithful big brother. I promise to call him, even though my mother says she doesn’t want me to call. Before I walk out the door, my boy kisses me—then he draws a cross on my forehead with his right thumb, a faithful seriousness across his face and an empathetic glint in his eye. I know that deep in his soul, he is praying for me—and praying for his littlest sibling’s life. I feel the blessing of God as his thumb traces the cross above my brow and remember Who is bearing my burdens for me—even right now, even in this moment, even as I take the next step in a terrifying and unpredictable journey.

The drive feels long. It’s nearly thirty miles to begin with, but it feels longer. We don’t talk much, my husband and I—our nerves are edgy and prickly, neither of us quite wanting to voice our deepest fears. I feel like I am driving to the guillotine. The other shoe is about to drop. I don’t want to let go of these hopes and joys and dreams that have been building up in me. But the veracity of reality is about to look me in the face… and my skin gets covered in goosebumps because ignorance can be bliss, and knowledge fearsome.

My husband parks the car in the familiar parking lot. The hospital. The place where I have faced both life and death repeatedly. It’s a wonderful place—a horrific place. We pray. It is a simple prayer that my husband speaks, honest and vulnerable—not doubting or hopeful—simply requesting our Father to be with us, and begging His mercy upon the life we have not yet looked at with our eyes but know His eyes are always there.

Getting out of the car and walking into the hospital is painful—partly because of memories that are dancing in my head and partly because my bladder is close to exploding. The irony of asking pregnant women to overload their bladders with thirty-two ounces of water in the hour prior to an ultrasound is almost insane. I wiggle slightly back and forth while I check in, and I ask the receptionist, I’m not supposed to use the bathroom, right? She smiles knowingly and shakes her head. Okay, I say with a sigh and a forced grin, just thought it was worth asking. I guess it might be my way of communicating to her that I was more than ready for my appointment, and would appreciate being seen in a timely manner.

We sit down in the waiting area. A couple other people are waiting, too, reading magazines, looking at their feet. Elevator music fills the area. I squirm and rock side to side in my chair, willing my bladder to stop throbbing. A mere three minutes later, I hear a young woman speak my name. I look up—she is almost angelic—the sonography intern, telling me they are ready, and will take me back early so that I can go potty as soon as possible. Oh! I want to hug her. Waiting another twenty minutes until my actual appointment time would have been miserable on so many fronts—just having those minutes of bladder pain and painful memories avoided is such a gift, such a grace, such an act of mercy.

She takes us to the same room we were in for our last ultrasound—eleven months ago—with a baby who did not wiggle, whose heart did not flutter—a room where my husband’s head sank into his hands near his chest, and I laid on the paper covered table feeling like the weight of thirty-five rainclouds suddenly laid upon my chest and I tried my uttermost to hold back the storms of tears.
Oh God, I silently close my eyelids for a moment and pray, redemption. Oh God, please! Redeem this room, I beg You!

Unbuttoning my jeans, I lay my head back. Since an intern is performing the scan, she gets started right away while her supervisor asks me all the preliminary questions from a nearby computer desk. Keep breathing. Keep answering questions. Don’t look at the screen. When was my last period? How many times have I been pregnant? How many live births? Do I have a history of miscarriage? Yes, clearly, I say with a small snark under my breath. At almost this exact moment, Steven squeezes my hand—I see the heartbeat! My head jerks to the left and cranes upward to see the screen he is scrutinizing. What?! I almost shriek, unbelieving. The sonography intern verbally agrees with him, and for a brief second I see that miraculous flutter. But now my eyes are full of tears and I can’t see anything.

Steven’s smile is ear to ear. He keeps squeezing my hand. I think he just kissed it. I realize the intern is moving on to scan my ovaries and other lady parts but promises to come back to show us more of our baby in a minute. I also realize the supervisor has continued asking me questions but I am not paying attention. Medications? Oh, umm, yes I definitely take medications. I can tell you what they all are if you want—she types quickly and logs my pills and my injections—she looks over at me and smiles with this understanding, compassionate smile—she gets that this is a big deal, a big moment, a big day, a big lifetime.

I focus on breathing. I keep reminding myself that things are okay, don’t burst into tears. Things get more quiet when the questions stop, except for the click, click, click of the ultrasound machine and the intern taking various measurements of things. My brain starts going backwards in time, and I remember other babies, other ultrasounds. I start getting scared again and whisper to Steven, I don’t want this one to be like Heritage—I’m afraid this will be like Heritage. She outgrew her sac, and I am so scared that such a thing might happen again. Steven keeps grinning at me and squeezing my hand though—not only more calm of spirit in general, but also having a much clearer and more direct view of the computer screen—he seems unfaltering, unwavering, solid. I cling to that. I repeat Psalm 46 to myself and sing a version of Joshua 1:9 under my breath that my dad taught me just this week.

Behold, I have said unto thee
Be strong and bold,
Neither fear nor dread.
For the Lord thy God is with thee,
whether so ever thou goest.
Joshua 1:9
(William Tyndale translation, 1549)

Finally, we get to focus on seeing our baby. I am so thankful the sonographers call it our baby! No cold medical terms here, but warm familial words. They comfort us with their encouraging tones and phrases that reassure us things look okay. The sacs measure the right size, and we can easily see that precious little heart fluttering away! My bladder is so full that half the computer screen seems to be filled with a big black bubble—it’s even squishing the baby’s gestational sac to the point that it makes it hard to measure the baby’s size! They squish and squash things around, but finally realize that the only thing that will allow us to properly see our little baby is to let my bladder shrink a bit. Go to the bathroom, and try to go only partway, they say. I make a joke about needing to practice my Kegels anyway. I eagerly find the bathroom and do my best. While I wash my hands, I look at myself in the mirror—I can even tell that I look weary and petrified, almost old. I purse my lips, pinch my cheeks, tell myself to brighten up because the sun sure is shining today.

I return to the room and lie down again. The paper on the table is crunchy, and I giggle to myself thinking about how my kids would love to color on that stuff. They return to scanning my belly but quickly stop, laughing that I need to go back to the bathroom and try again—this time, she says, pee for a solid ten seconds before stopping, okay? Chuckling, I run back to the bathroom and decide to go for a full eleven. Why not.

It is such an indescribable relief to be chuckling in the middle of an ultrasound appointment!! Levity is not lost on me even at this moment when the world feels so heavy on my shoulders.

Back on the table again, with the warm gel squirted on my belly again, this time with the senior sonographer doing the work—there’s my baby. Oh bliss. No longer hidden and squished by my overfilled bladder, I can see those details I had basically convinced myself that I would never again see. Not quite big enough to look like a gummy bear with arms and legs moving around independently, but we are schooled enough in the world of first trimester ultrasounds that we can determine the crown to rump area, we can see the yolk sac, we can even see the umbilical cord connecting up to the placenta in my uterus. Measuring someone so small is no wee feat, but repeated measurements show that this tiny person is measuring exactly, precisely where it ought to, right down to the day. I have been everything but textbook with pregnancy in the past, so to walk the line of expected or average is a foreign thing to me, in any capacity.

Look at that heartbeat! It is the most miraculous movement in the world to my eyes. Flutter, flutter, flutter. Consistent and strong. Perfect. I am humbled. I breathe a deep sigh.

For You formed my inward parts;
You knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are Your works;
my soul knows it very well.
Psalm 139:13-14

Pictures print off the ultrasound machine printer, and we are given black and white and grey blobs that are evidence of what the Lord is doing in secret, proof of life, confirmation of this crazy roller coaster we have been riding in recent weeks. I wipe the jelly off of my skin, button my jeans, say thank you repeatedly and emphatically—and thrust my things into Steven’s arms so I can hit the bathroom one last time for the full and final relief that only an empty bladder paired with a calm heart can give.

We walk out through the waiting room—holding hands & gripping ultrasound pictures with grins on our faces—like so many others who have innocently made that walk, climbed these steps, left this building. It feels unbelievably surreal to leave with hope renewed and joy strengthened—now that it’s over, I am willing to admit it—I expected to see death in my womb rather than life. To be surprised with the gift of life and hope leaves me speechless, but I have a dozen people waiting on pins and needs to hear the news.

As usual, I call my father first—I can hear the nerves in his voice, and I tell him quickly and plainly, everything looks good—and He praises God, he asks for details about his youngest grandchild, and he tells me repeatedly of his love for me.
Then I call my children. My mother answers the phone and I ask for my oldest son. Hi Mommy, we’re playing checkers! How’s the baby? Heart of my heart, I am so glad to hear your voice and so desperately thankful that I get to tell you that this time God said yes! Well sweetie, I have a picture here to bring you of our healthy little baby, who looks really good and everything is okay—and we get to thank God for this kindness! He says something about being glad and how he can’t wait to see me but he has to get back to his game of checkers.
I speak to my younger son—Hi Mommy, I miss you! Are you coming home? I smile to myself, not even actually sure which of my younger children it is for a moment—yes, sweetie, we will be home soon. And the baby is alive and healthy, so I will bring you a picture, okay?
I ask to talk to my mother, the one who didn’t want to be called. I figure they told me hormone numbers and lab results when I had specifically told them I didn’t want to know so it’s payback time—and I speak to her, telling her that her seventeenth grandchild is alive, healthy, perfect. I hear the relief in her voice, she almost doesn’t know what to say. Perhaps she is as surprised as I am that we have good news today.

That’s enough phone calls for now. There will be more phone calls and emails to compose later. For right now, though, I just want to be driven around by my husband, hold his hand, smile at one another surreptitiously, stare at these pictures of my little child—the one I will dream of and long for in ways that only I can—as I snuggle my Sweet Teen in my womb and head off for a celebratory lettuce-wrapped cheeseburger.

And so for this moment, suddenly and surprisingly, all feels right and beautiful with the world. 

How precious to me are Your thoughts, O God!
How vast is the sum of them!
If I would count them, they are more than the sand.
I awake, and I am still with You.
Psalm 139:17-18

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Thank you for entering this part of my world with me. Thank you for letting me share my perspective, as I lend you my lenses to see the world as I see it through my own experiences and frame. God is good. And there is more yet to come.

As I look ahead toward the finish line of this pregnancy (cue the nesting season), I am also looking back.
One aspect I wanted to share with you about this specific PAL (Pregnancy After Loss) journey is how I shared the amazing & petrifying news with my family.
Here’s a peek into those sacred moments last winter, which I wrote about at the time:

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I was waiting for just the right moment. I had a congratulations Daddy card and a hunting arrow stashed in an easily accessible place in case the moment presented itself. Dinner happened. House tidying happened. I turned on a video for our two younger children and began to fold laundry. They sat on the floor, propped on big decorative pillows, at the foot of our bed, watching the television with gleeful abandon. I had a mound of clean clothes and towels on top of our bed—I stood there making order from the chaos, folding piece by piece, sorting them into piles according to whom they belonged. I could hear my husband coming. I sneakily put the card and the arrow on his bedside table, and I stood on the opposite side of the bed to match socks and smooth shirts. He came in—he walked to his side of the bed to begin helping me fold the things which clothe our nakedness, warm our chill, and dry our damp. He stopped, seeing unusual items on his bedside table—he glanced at me quickly, then opened the card. His face! He saw the arrow, he read my words, and knowledge of our baby’s life seeped into his bones and changed his world in a nanosecond. He hurried to my side—kissed me, embraced me, touched my belly.

Such a real life family moment. The biggest boy at a sleepover for the very first time. Two year old sister and three year old brother, watching cartoons in the background, oblivious to the joy and the secrets and the conversation. Mound of laundry, half folded thus far, grounding us in reality. Our entire world taking a new shape while we stand here in the bedroom where we share this bed—the bed where thirteen children have been planted from seeds, in a love that only we know—and where there are memories of every child, the joys and the griefs, behind and beside us. Wedding photos—family photos—baby memorial photos—nine little wooden boxes where the bodies of babies rest. This is a sacred moment in our own sacred place. I did not plan it, but I waited for it. In this real life family moment, our family life is changing forever, one way or another. And all I can think of is how desperately I want this baby to live! And subsequently, how I never want to be pregnant again—how I want this moment to be the last time I share this sacred secret with the husband whose heart is knit into mine and whose body is my other home. I nuzzle my face into his shoulder, and I sigh—please Lord, save Lord, life Lord!

Telling our children has been a game-changer for me. Right from when I told Steven over a week ago about this little one in my womb, he was eager to tell our three munchkins, while I have been very reserved about the whole thing. Scorched into my memory as a burn whose scar will never completely heal is when I had to tell my oldest son that our baby girl had died. That was over a year ago. And then just a couple months later, I had to tell him again that God once again had said no. That was almost a year ago now. But the guttural, visceral pain I tangibly feel all over again when I relive the memory of telling my son that his beloved baby in his mother’s womb had died is indescribable, inconceivable, inexplicable. So telling our children about this new baby was not at the top of my to-do list.

My mother hen instinct is too strong—I want to cluck about, covering these precious chicks with my wings, distracting them with shiny bugs and grain on the ground, protecting them with every ounce of my being from the hawks that circle, no matter how far overhead. But my husband had a different perspective. He said, Our children pray frequently for us to have a baby—they deserve to know how the Lord answers when He hears their prayers. We should not try to protect them from what the Lord is doing here. These children are part of our family, and this baby is part of our family. The Lord put each of us together in this story for a reason, and the kids should know this chapter of the story too. We should give them the honor, the joy, and the privilege of rejoicing with us and continuing in prayer alongside us.

He got me there.

So I made a little notecard to give the kids, and right before we started our weekly tradition of a Sunday evening “family fun night,” we sat them down on the couch—the oldest, the only fluent reader, in the middle—and told them we had a gift to give them. With the three year old on one side and the two year old on the other, the 6 ½ year old read aloud the note that there was a baby in Mommy’s tummy, in answer to their prayers—and now we would get to pray together for God to care for this baby and to keep it healthy and safe. Two year old Evangeline remained pretty oblivious, slurping away on her sippy cup of cold milk—three year old Asher took a decidedly toddler response by scowling and repeatedly dropping his fist into the arm of the couch without actually saying anything—and biggest brother Gabriel’s eyes got big, his cheeks dimpled into a smile, and he said, “is it true? Is there really a baby in your tummy?” And less than a minute later, he wanted us to hold hands, bow heads, and pray for our Father in heaven to keep this baby alive, to let it live, to keep it healthy and safe.

And now I feel like anxiety is bubbling up around me in more noticeable, tangible ways than it has yet in this pregnancy. I feel naked, exposed, vulnerable. My children now know my secret. My son who can read me like a book and see through me like a piece of glass will interpret every attitude I have, every emotion I show, every comment or action—and he and I will now go through constant unspoken communication, where he will try to uncover every secret every day, and I will continue trying to hide his eyes and distract his gaze so that he will be as sheltered as I can keep him for right now.

Suddenly my weakness is plain and my strength is gone. My hope feels precarious and wavering. Even my praise and joy feel translucent, thin, wispy, fearful. There is no more hiding, no more pretending. I know what comes next: the children who pray at half a dozen intervals throughout the day for the baby in Mommy’s tummy, the kisses to my tummy, the spilling of the secret to everyone we see next.

Thus begins my time of needing to regularly preach the truth to myself. To cover myself with the armor that the Lord has prepared and given to me. To speak the truth to my family, to myself, to my God—regardless of what fears, feelings, anxieties, hopelessness tries to sneak in. I will bless the Lord with my words and my actions. I will do what He has called me to do, and I will follow Him in that wisdom. I will trust Him, even when that means giving up my entire set of spiritual and physical weakness to Him—because only He can give me the strength of soul and body that I need right now to accomplish the work He has set before me. So as I go to bed tonight, carrying a child within me that nobody can see or touch or help, I will recite His Word to myself and to Him, asking Him to renew my strength, to crown me with love and mercy, to satisfy me with His goodness.

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Over seven months since I wrote that, I am still daily needing to preach the truth to myself, and asking the Lord to cover me with His armor. Just last week, I wrote a PAL prayer using Ephesians 6:10-20 as my skeleton. Looking back and looking forward are both good things, because they both remind me to throw myself on my King and trust Him for His mercy.

If you have lived through a loss, and have found yourself on the other side of that storm carrying a rainbow inside your womb, I would love to hear from you ~ what was it like for you to hear that news and to share that news?

The conversation will continue again soon…

I have set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember My covenant that is between Me and you and every living creature of all flesh. And the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh. When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.
Genesis 9:13-16

Last time I talked about how dressing my pregnant body walks a fine balancing line, and dances with a dichotomy. I know the pain, and I also know the joy. I embrace both.

Another way that I embrace both is another outward, visual thing. Not daily, but sometimes. You can see it in the picture above. Right over my heart is my necklace with all my babies’ names on it. Well, the first twelve. I haven’t added Sweet Teen’s nametag to it yet, because his name is still a secret. So he rests in my belly, and the names of the other twelve rest close to my heart.

Not that I ever forget… but sometimes I like having a tangible, visual reminder of all my children.
I like the conversation piece.
I appreciate the perspective.
And like our Lord’s seeing of His bow in the clouds, I like seeing this reminder & remembering.
And it’s something other people can see too, and maybe remember (or ask about for the first time).

The joy this little boy’s life gives me… this sweet baby who lives hidden underneath my skin… is indescribable. And the fact that I know what could have been makes me cherish him all the more, I think. I know how fragile life is. I know how undeserving I am. I know how miraculous it is that two cells met in my womb, that God spoke life into that union, that He gave us medications to control my body, that He enabled my physical self to nurture this tiny boy rather than attack it. I know. And that knowledge gives me a daily abundance of joy and dose of humility that I can not aptly put into words.

But if you look in my eyes, if you grasp my hand, if you see me fingering my necklace, if you notice me poking my belly because someone from the inside is poking me back… you might get a little glimpse of knowing too.

This necklace? Oh, it’s my mommy necklace.
Yes, each one of my children has a nametag.
Yep, there are a dozen.
Well… a dozen names there, and the thirteenth is on the way.
Yes, I am very blessed. You really have no idea.