This time last year I was just a few weeks away from learning that I had a miscarriage. We would have a four month old right now. Instead, I am going into the doctor weekly for non-stress tests in anticipation of baby number two’s arrival. And it’s been a roller coaster of emotions.
When we learned that I was pregnant this time, I texted a group of my dear friends and asked for doctor recommendations. I absolutely love my doctor but I did not want to see that nurse again. I received several helpful recommendations, but one friend urged me to stay with my doctor and I’m really glad I did. She has been extremely proactive throughout my pregnancy. Having high blood pressure while pregnant makes me a little nervous. I already know of two women who recently delivered early due to preeclampsia and I’ve been eagerly awaiting the same. Instead, my blood pressure has leveled to a normal rate and, despite having hyperemesis gravidarum (a fancy term for severe morning sickness), our baby boy is growing ahead of schedule.
The moment I have been dreading most is coming face to face with the nurse that I dealt with a year ago, but every appointment had thankfully been with another nurse. I once stopped in the office to ask for a list of approved medications while I had a cold. I really just wanted to know how many cough drops I could pop without having CPS at my door. First time mom over here. Instead of handing me a list they said “Nurse will be out to speak with you.” I quickly said “That’s okay” and I left. I called my sister-in-law instead.
Patrick and I arrived for my first non-stress test a few weeks ago, just a month shy of the anniversary of the week from hell. When I checked in they said “Nurse will be right with you.” My face went white and I turned to Patrick (I’m sure within earshot of the front desk) and said “Crap, Patrick. It’s Nurse.”
She came to get us and was extremely nice, but her distinct voice reminded me of every prior conversation we’d had before. Every word came flooding back to mind. She led us to a room where she hooked me up to a series of wires to monitor the baby’s movement. She took my blood pressure, which was high, and said “Oh dear. We must make you nervous, huh?”
“You have no idea,” I said, looking directly at Patrick.
She brought me juice and crackers while I took the test. Had I already had children at home this twenty minutes of quiet time with snacks would have felt like a spa treatment. Instead, I spent those minutes worrying about our son and the fact that I wasn’t feeling him move at all. She came back in and said that he looked “perfect”. Not good. Not okay. Perfect. While I was not feeling him move, he was moving the entire time.
When I worry my blood pressure is high, it’s not.
When I worry the baby is not healthy, he’s ahead of schedule.
When I worry that my gallons upon gallons of ice cream intake have completely destroyed my pancreas, my glucose test comes back reading eighty.
When I try to control what is happening in our life, I realize that I never held control in the first place. And that’s okay.
We have come full circle in a year. All the moving parts of this particular year-long event taught us that we are not always in control, that people make mistakes, and that God is sovereign. We still mourn the loss of our first baby but we rejoice in this new life. What initially felt like torture having to meet with the nurse again now feels like closure. The woman that crushed us last summer is a part of our new story. I can forgive, and I’m embarrassed to say it’s taken this long to do so. What began as a story of confusion and heartache less than a year ago closes as a story of celebration and a reminder that He is moving even when I don’t feel Him.
To God be the Glory.