The morning light pierced the thin curtain and forced me out of my drug-induced sleep. The unfamiliar room brought momentary confusion until memories of the previous day came rushing back. Desperate to escape, my mind screamed, I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t the way it was supposed to end!
A nurse entered my room and announced, “I will be in charge of your care.” She took my hand, wiped the tears from my cheek, and whispered, “I know you don’t believe this, but it’s going to be ok.”
Sobs erupted from my throat, “I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t the way it was supposed to end.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
She reached for the button that administered pain medication and sternly commanded, “This is no time to be brave. Push the button when you need it!” Watching the drops of medicine slide down the tube, I knew no matter how many times I pushed the button, the pain of losing two more babies would never go away.
Just twenty-four hours earlier I spent the day preparing for Christmas. As the day passed, I felt fatigued and climbed into bed early but awoke with sharp pains in my abdomen a few hours later. We raced to the hospital. Our fourth trip in just eighteen months. Fear gripped my heart as I prayed for a different outcome this time. An ultrasound revealed two babies in my womb. Twins?! Two?! Joy filled our hearts—but was short-lived—as the technician interrupted our celebration. “Unfortunately,” he said hesitatingly, “neither has a heartbeat.”
Please God, let the technician be wrong. I won’t survive the loss of two more babies.
The doctor confirmed the babies were gone. Everything stopped. My mind screamed, I’m not supposed to be here. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end.
Moments later, they wheeled me into the operating room for a routine dilation and curettage. As the drugs began to take effect, I turned to the anesthesiologist and mumbled, “Please take care of my babies.”
Four hours later I awoke in the recovery room. Confused by the length of time in surgery, I asked Donny why it had taken so long, but then drifted back to sleep before he could respond.
When the anesthesia wore off, the doctor explained a mishap occurred during the procedure. Not only were my babies dead, I faced a six-week recovery.
My heart ached for the babies I would never hold. Fear overwhelmed me as I laid in bed. Where were they? Did they know how much I desperately wanted them? Would they ever know how much I loved them? Would I ever see them again? Desperately I cried out to God, “Please help me. I want my babies. It hurts too much. I’m not going to survive this.”
Immediately, God gave me a vision: I stood next to Jesus in a large field of Lilies of the Valley. I watched as two toddlers picked the delicate, white flowers. I knew instantly these were my boys. After a few minutes, I saw Jesus walk over, pick them up, and then in a still small voice He said, “Your boys are fine. They’re with Me.”
Turning to walk away, the boys peeked over His shoulders and said, “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you too,” I whispered.
The vision ended. Peace filled my soul and body.
Later that night, Donny asked, “What happened to you? You seem calm and peaceful.”
“I am. I saw the twins.”
Eleven months later, we anxiously drove, again to the same hospital. My mind drifted back to the loss of our first baby. At that time God whispered, “There will be more babies. You will nurse a baby again.” True to His word, more babies lived within my womb but had not survived. Five in all.
My thoughts were interrupted as we pulled up to the hospital. The nurse took us into the room where our doctor waited. He placed a monitor on my belly as we nervously waited for the assurance the baby was alive. Within seconds the melodic sound of a heartbeat filled the room. Joy, tears, and laughter erupted.
Jedidiah was placed in my arms a few hours later. He immediately latched on to my breast and began to nurse. I laid my head back on the pillow and closed my eyes as the sun went down outside my window.
