It’s Monday morning. I sit in the waiting room of my OB’s office reading Harry Potter (again) and waiting my turn. This should be a quick visit (with “quick” being a relative term when it comes to the OB’s office) – just the usual weight-blood-pressure-how-are-you-feeling-baby’s-heart-rate-is-good kind of visit.
My name is called and I am ushered to an exam room where I wait a bit longer before the doctor arrives to visit with me. “All seems well,” I tell her. “I’m feeling a bit better; although, I do still have a few moments/days where I feel sick,” I tell her.
She pulls out the doppler and sets to work finding the baby’s heartbeat. A few seconds, and nothing. Several more seconds, and nothing. A full minute, still nothing. The silence that strikes fear in the heart of any expectant mother. The doctor tries to reassure me: “It could just be the baby’s position or the position of the uterus,” she says. But we both know there is also the possibility of miscarriage. “Let’s take a look and see what’s going on,” she says.
So off I go to wait again. In a different set of chairs this time. Praying fervently all the while that everything is okay with this tiny one growing within my body. I feel a couple of tiny little movements that are more reassuring than anything anyone could say. Thank you, Jesus.
The ultrasound tech calls my name. I lie down on the table and she places the ultrasound wand on my belly. “This baby’s heart-rate is great,” she says almost immediately. Relief, gratitude, praise flood my being as I see images of this little one who has, in the last four weeks, begun to look more like a baby and less like a peanut.
The next day I drive down the road listening to my two little people giggle together in the back seat. “How Great is My God” plays on the radio, and all I can think is “Amen!”