Some good news, some bad news, and why I need prayer

I’ve been pretty quiet online for a while because life has been wild this year. Aside from Mike traveling a lot for work, which is cool for him and sad for me, we were surprised to find out we were pregnant with a free baby. As in, no shots required. Can you believe it? My doctor said it was highly unlikely that it would ever happen for me without IVF so I'd given up. I was convinced I’d have to shoot up again this year to try to get pregnant, and I was dreading it. I hate the IVF/FET process so much. I was not one of those strong, super-positive mamas who focused on the end goal. I cried fresh tears daily over the shots and infusions. I hated them. I just wanted to get pregnant without getting stabbed.  

The good news

And then it happened. I took a pregnancy test and sobbed over those two pink lines. I'd never seen them before in real life, but there they were--two dark pink lines that showed up immediately on that pee-soaked paper strip. I took 12 more tests just to be certain--not on the same day because that's wasteful--and saved all of them. (Mike pointed out that I just needed to save one, but I told him to let me live.) We couldn't believe our luck even after all of the positive pregnancy tests and confirmation from the doctor. It was just too good to be true. 

At first I didn’t say anything because I felt guilty about getting a free baby when I know so many women who are still slogging through infertility and braving daily fertility treatments. I'd become the success story that everyone likes to mention when you finally get pregnant after successfully adopting your child or getting pregnant through IVF, and I felt really bad about it. People mean well, but those stories aren't helpful--at least they weren't to me. Why? It's hard to hope when you've been disappointed so many times. 

An early look (around 12 weeks) at our claymation baby--a weird and wondrous sight to behold.

The bad news

Just when I thought I was ready to share our great news, I started getting abnormal test results. After several blood tests, ultrasounds, and an amniocentesis, we learned that our baby was special, but not in the way I wanted. He has trisomy 18. If you don’t know what it is, it’s a chromosome disorder marked by life-threatening birth defects with a high mortality rate. Only 10 percent of babies with trisomy 18 live to a year. We were shocked. Angry. Devastated. Heartbroken. Resigned. I mean, it really was too good to be true. We couldn't just have a miracle. When the first abnormal test results came back, I said, "God, please don't make me do this. Don't make me survive this so I can help someone else do it. I've already done it. Give me something else. Please." I have whimpered and moaned this prayer a few more times, but all I've heard are my own choked sobs. 

I have cried myself to sleep every night since we got the news last Wednesday. Our sweet boy is due in September, which feels like an eternity from now, and I am no longer looking forward to meeting him because I can’t bear the thought of saying goodbye. And yet, I do want to meet him. I am hoping he lives long enough for us to meet him. I want to see his face and tell him we love him—tell him he is the miracle we never thought we’d get—and then tell him goodbye for now. I want to tell him how sorry I am that he can't stay. Really though--I'm sorry for myself, not him. He gets to go be with Jesus with his brother and sister, and I have to live without him.

Where we are now

We are entering into uncharted territory, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid. After years of infertility and two losses, I feel like I’m acquainted with sorrow, but what lies ahead feels utterly foreign and terrifying. I know God is with me--that He will help me survive this just as He helped me survive infertility and loss--but I desperately wish I didn’t have to walk this road. I don’t want to do it. 

I don’t want to know what it’s like to plan a funeral instead of a birthday party. 

I don’t want to know what it’s like to give birth to an angel or watch my child become one. 

I don’t want to have to say goodbye when I’ve hardly had a chance to get to know him. 

This little guy keeps moving around in my belly as if to remind me he’s still here, still fighting, and that has helped a little. He doesn’t know his heart is broken--that his body isn’t knit together the way it’s supposed to--so I talk to him as though everything's alright. I've told him about his big brother, and I tell how much we love him, that we hope to meet him. Does he know I often cry when I’m talking to him? I hope not. But maybe he does. 

A request

I’m sharing this for a few reasons. The biggest reason is because I need prayer. I have stopped praying for a miracle because it breaks my heart too much to hope. But, I know that prayer is powerful. A few of our friends and family members are praying for a miracle, and I’m grateful they are praying for one on our behalf. I am praying for strength to get through each day. I’m praying that my boy doesn’t suffer--that I will get to meet him--and that his inevitable passing will be peaceful and painless. I’m also praying for peace and wisdom as we try and make the best decisions for our boy. God knows I don’t know what I’m doing. 

I'm also sharing because I want you to know about my boy. I have a boy growing inside of me—a broken-hearted miracle child—and he is deeply cherished and loved. I want you to know he’s alive so you won’t be surprised when I tell you he’s gone. I wish I could tell you more about him, but this is all I know for now. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading. If you’re going to pray, thanks for praying. If you see me and don't know what to say, say that--just say you're sorry, and that you don't know what to say. That's enough, and it helps more than you know.