Knowing

So, I’m a bit of a control freak.  And THAT may be a bit of an understatement.  I can cite several instances of DNA or situational evidence to show why I am that way, but for now, I will entertain you with a story of an airplane trip. 

I hate flying.

HATE IT. 

See, I was in a couple car accidents (I’m not a very good driver) shortly after marrying my main man, and they kind of made me understand what it means to have absolutely no control over my life.  I came very close to dying twice, but managed to walk away unscathed.  And once again, those are stories for another post.  However, despite God’s amazing deliverance from those two accidents, my faith in God did not grow; instead, I became even more fearful. 

So…here I was, several months later, flying to visit my sister in North Carolina.  She herself had just been in a car accident, and she didn't want to drive back to Ohio alone.  So, naturally, I went to be a "comfort."  Me.  Who had to close my eyes and go to a "happy place" every time she  got in a car.  Who refused to drive on four lane highways and barely survived riding on them.  What was I thinking?

Anyways....the first flight was from Columbus to Cleveland.  Yes, I know.  I went north to go south.  But it was cheap.  It was raining, and the plane was one of those tiny things that had one seat on one side of the aisle and two on the other.  I was on the two seater side, sitting next to a pretty, blonde business woman.

We lifted off.

It was horrible.

It started to thunder, and every boom shook our little plane.

With every boom, I grabbed the pretty blonde lady's leg and yelled in terror.

She was very comforting.

Thank goodness she didn't sue me.

Then, it started lightning.

Oy.  I was sure it would hit the wing.

I kept asking the lady, "Should we let the pilot know about the storm?"

And she would say, "I'm sure he sees it, honey."

"But are you sure?  I just need to know he sees it."

"I'm sure, dear.  Now could you let go?  I think you've given me a run in my panty hose."

"Oh.  Sorry."  

I guarantee you it was the longest forty-five minutes of my life.

And of hers.

And I think we all could have saved ourselves the hassle if they just would have let me talk to the pilot.  I needed to know for sure that he was aware of the storm.

There’s something else I don’t know for sure, something that plagues me at every physical and at every doctor’s appointment I've ever gone to.  When a woman fills out paper work at a doctor’s office, there are a series of questions she is asked about her health.  They want to know past surgeries, allergies, shot records, and on and on and on.  Eventually, they ask her how many pregnancies she’s had, and how many children she’s given birth to.  Those are the questions that are hard for me to answer, because I don’t know. 

How can I not know? 

Well, the story goes like this. 

Marc and I had been married just over a year when I started bleeding, kind of like that woman in Luke 8.  This was the second time it had happened.  The first time, Marc and I had been engaged, and after about 20 days of it, I went to the doctor, who told me my hormones were imbalanced, I had a cyst, and birth control would fix it all.  I went on the birth control, the bleeding stopped, and I became Cruella Devil.  No dogs were killed in my brief time as an out of control psycho woman, but I did not at all like the way I felt and acted.  So as soon as the problem was resolved, I went off the birth control. 

When the bleeding started the second time, I called my doctor to let her know that I was having the same problem.  She was busy, and stressed, and overbooked.  So instead of scheduling an appointment, she just called in a prescription for more birth control. 

Here’s the worst part.  I was busy, and stressed, and overbooked too.  So I didn't question her decision.  The symptoms were the same, so I imagined it was the same problem.  I was too busy to stop and think that one major thing in my life was different—one major thing that I should have brought to the doctor’s attention, that may have changed her mind about my situation. 

I was now sexually active. 

Which meant there was a possibility I could be pregnant. 

 I ordered the pills, started taking them, and the bleeding didn't stop. 

I called the doctor.  She said not to worry; it may take a while. 

Thirty days turned to forty-five, turned to sixty.

I called again. 

Give it another month. 

But I’d really like an appointment. 

I don’t have room in my schedule.  Call me if it doesn't stop after another month. 

Okay. 

Eighty days. 

On day eighty-five, I woke up in excruciating pain.  Not constant, but about every three minutes I would be doubled over, fighting to breathe.  It would ease, then come again.  I tried to go to work, but an hour in I had to call my grandpa to take me home.  He wisely took me to my mom’s house, and I called my doctor.  She still didn't want to see me.  I went upstairs to the bathroom I had used thousands of times in my childhood, sat down on the toilet and stared into the mirror as I had done every day multiple times until I had moved out of their house and in with my husband. As I braced myself against the white and gold Formica counter top, I passed the largest blood clot I had ever seen, and the pain stopped.

I didn't know what it meant.  But I knew I was really sick. 

I called another doctor, and he said that I needed to be seen immediately. 

My husband was off work by then, and drove me to his office.  I checked in, and they called me back right away. 

How long has the bleeding been going on?  How long have you been on birth control?  Are you sexually active?  Did you take a pregnancy test before taking the birth control?

No. 

He sent me straight to the hospital to do a pregnancy test. 

The results were inconclusive. 

What does that mean?

That means you’re not pregnant now. 

Was I pregnant? 

The numbers aren’t such that we can confirm you were pregnant. 

So I wasn’t pregnant?

We can’t confirm that either. 

They did what they called a pharmaceutical DNC, and gave me lots and lots of iron pills and pain pills and other things to get me through the next few days.  I did eventually stop bleeding, right about the time the questions started swirling in my brain. 

Did I have a miscarriage? 

Did I deliver a baby in the bathroom of my parent’s house? 

No one seemed to be able to answer those questions. 

For almost eight years, I have wondered and agonized over those questions. 

And I have no answer. 

How do you grieve the loss of a child that you aren't sure ever existed? 

How do you forgive yourself for contributing to the murder of an innocent baby if you aren't sure it ever happened? 

I wanted someone to tell me.  I wanted someone to give me 100% assurance that I was or wasn't pregnant.  But no one could.  Or, maybe no one wanted to. 

There’s so much I don’t know.

But I do know this. 

My God loves me, and my God has the power to redeem even the most awful parts of my life. 

Nine months ago, God seared the faces of two little girls into my heart.  He softened the callous, insensitive corners of my soul and I cried out to Him in anguish as I grieved the loss of innocence, as I grieved the pain and suffering those two girls were being forced to endure. 

And over the last eight months, God has called my husband and me to be their parents. 

About four months ago, I realized that God was working big things in our lives, and I wanted to write it down.  I wanted to be able to set up a memorial that would remind me of all the little but yet so big ways God was actively forming and shaping our lives to take on this huge and awesome responsibility.  As I did so, I was stunned and awed when I realized that my “miscarriage-or-not” was about 9 months before the births of those two little girls.  They would be the same age as the child I may or may not have had. 

I could not grieve the loss of a child I did not know existed. 

But God gave me the opportunity to grieve anyways, this time for two little girls who were definitely alive and who definitely needed a mommy and a daddy. 

And not only has God given me the opportunity to grieve, but I believe that in His unfathomable goodness, He will give me a time to dance. 

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4 says, “There is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die.  A time to plant and a time to harvest.  A time to kill and a time to heal.  A time to tear down and a time to rebuild.  A time to cry and a time to laugh.  A time to grieve and a time to dance.” 

I do not deserve God’s forgiveness.  I do not deserve to be a mother.  I put my life and my plans ahead of the safety and well being of a child whose existence I didn't have time to contemplate.  But God forgave me anyways.  And God gave me children anyways, first two boys that have captured my heart and now two girls who will teach me how to find joy and redemption.  Two girls who will teach me how to dance. 

Let me leave you with the words of Psalm 107: 1-2, 41-43:

“Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good!  His faithful love endures forever.  Has the LORD redeemed you?  Then speak out!  Tell others he has saved you from your enemies…he rescues the poor from their distress and increases their families like vast flocks of sheep.  The godly will see these things and be glad…Those who are wise will take all this to heart; they will see in our history the faithful love of the LORD.”