Gratitude Despite the Storm
When my third child was just 6 months old, I already knew I was ready for my fourth, a girl. I just knew. My husband and I started to make plans, gear up, and even began buying her hair bows, her first ballet leotard, and I began my short list of names.
Weeks turned into months, so I asked doctors if something was wrong, but none had any concrete answers for me. Instead, I was repeatedly told it would take time. My age would come up at times, but I never thought too much of it. But when months turned into a year, I became concerned.
I never had difficulty with any of my other children, and I suppose I presumed it’d be the same this time around as well. But when time keeps passing you by, you begin to feel panicked, worried, and anxious. I lost track of how many times I thought I was pregnant, took a test, and the test came out negative.
I could feel a part of me change every time I read those results; I was slowly losing hope. Since high school, I knew I would one day adopt, but I always imagined it’d be much later in life.
So began the doctors appointments. I saw civilian doctors, military doctors, physician’s assistants, and specialists. None had answers. It wasn’t until I was reassigned to a new P.A. at Fort Carson that I would receive any answers. Looking back, it worked to our advantage that she came in so late in the game.
In the process of introducing myself via health history, she was able to see a snapshot of things and asked the right questions. Before I knew it, she ordered all sorts of blood tests and then my waiting game began. I remember being on pins and needles until I got my results.
Celiac disease. I had Celiac disease.
It was two-fold. It both felt like a death sentence or a near miss of one.
And there it was. The explanation of why it was that I could no longer conceive. Years later, but there it was. My answer and my obstacle all in one.
My third child was well into his toddler years and suddenly adding to our family was not the first thing on my mind anymore; keeping myself alive was.
It was difficult reading about my new diagnosis but freeing at the same time. Everything made sense. I found myself overjoyed that I wasn’t able to become pregnant after all. My husband was supportive. He listened as I read, held me as I cried, and helped me figure out my new lifestyle and diet. I had to get a full-time job and fast, because research showed our grocery bill would double overnight, and so I did.
In the midst of all of that, though, I felt like I could be pregnant. I tried to shake it off and convince myself that it was just my mind and my body playing tricks on me again, but just to be safe… I headed to the hospital.
I recall that drive like it was yesterday. The day was gorgeous, and it was peaceful outside. I couldn’t help but feel compelled to take that opportunity to talk to God. I wholeheartedly promised Him that no matter what the outcome, I would still love Him and have faith in Him. And I kept on driving.
I don’t recall telling my husband what I was doing, and maybe I should have because I found myself alone in that big waiting room, sitting patiently, awaiting my results. When the tall soldier in uniform came out and told me my results, I was stunned by what he said.
I asked him to repeat himself. “It’s positive. You’re pregnant,” he stated again.
My miracle baby will be 4 years old next month, and I absolutely adore her. I’m forever indebted to the P.A. who asked all the right questions and found my autoimmune disease when others didn’t. It’s because of her that I carried my baby girl to term and delivered a healthy beautiful babe. She saved both of our lives.
During a month where we focus a little more on what it is we’re grateful for, I must say that I’m grateful for access to medical coverage, for my husband who serves so that we may have quality care, and for good medical personnel who take the time to listen.
From my family to yours, Happy Holidays.
