Mom's Story, Part Two

This is part two in a series, click here to read Part One.

I took a deep breath and slowly lifted the blanket from my baby’s face.

My breath caught in my throat. Everything around me seemed to fade away. Time stood still as I looked into the face of the baby I had so long anticipated.

Her eyes were awkwardly situated near her temples.Two small holes were where her nose should have been. Her mouth was crooked. A large mass of flesh rose from one side of her forehead, while smaller lumps of protruding skin dotted her cheeks and chin.

Gingerly, I picked up the pink-blanketed baby and struggled to get us both into bed. When I looked across the room to the other mothers, they quickly averted their eyes, suddenly intent on their own newborns once again. News travels fast in a hospital. They apparently already knew that something was wrong with my baby.

Later, after the infants had been wheeled back to the nursery, the obstetrician came to my room. He solemnly drew the curtains around my bed, then spoke in subdued tones. He had no idea what my baby’s condition was nor what might have caused it, he admitted. Further, he could give no prognosis for her future, other than that she would undoubtedly be blind and mentally deficient. Having told me that, he swept the curtains back and swiftly fled from the room. I felt as though speaking to me had been nothing more than an annoying task on his busy to-do list, and now it had been thankfully accomplished.

Family members came to visit. Conversation was strained, and no one stayed long. No one asked to see the baby. My own mother and father were at a loss as to how to act or what to say. Even my husband seemed distant, no doubt consumed by his own particular grief. I felt alone, adrift in a sea of confusion and heartache.

Seeking to escape the awkward silence of the hospital room, I shuffled down the hallway, desperate to find a place where I could be alone and pour out my heart. I found that place behind a door labeled “Sitz Bath.”

I tried to pray, but all I could do was weep. All my hopes and dreams for the perfect little girl had dissolved, replaced by grief and fear. When my tears were exhausted, I turned to the Lord. “I’m afraid,” I whispered to Him. “What is going to happen to this little baby? Will I be able to take care of her? Will I even be able to love her?”

I felt as low as I’ve ever felt in my life. But the Lord heard my prayer. Suddenly an unusual thought came to my mind. Look at 2 Corinthians 4:17-18. I was puzzled, but also strangely expectant. I hurried back to my room.