A close friend of mine, (who is a very happy, positive person, by the way) once described motherhood as heartbreaking. She told me this when I was pregnant with Isabella. I wasn't sure what to make of that commentary. Would I be destined to a life of pain and misery because I was about to become a mom? Experience as a mother has taught me that it is heartbreaking. Motherhood has stretched me to my limits physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I've learned, however, that the heartbreak goes both ways. I've felt deep pain and anguish, but I've also felt satisfaction, peace of mind, and happiness so profound, my heart breaks just trying to contain all the emotion. This is my attempt at telling my story of becoming a mother to Matthew. I've agonized over writing this down because it's a heartbreaker--but aren't all good love stories? This is my heartbreak, but this one has a happy ending, I promise.
Becoming a new mom was the most unnatural experience of my life. There was no instinct about how to endure 18 weeks of strict bed rest during my pregnancy with Isabella, no intuition to guide me through my postpartum depression or her newborn colic. My bond with her didn't come easily or as immediately as I expected. It was a taxing, all-around-tough new role, but one that also provided lots of miracles. The bed rest paid off; I carried Isabella to term. The depression passed, and the bond with Isabella became so deep and protective, that in time, I knew I wanted to do it all again. My heart was prepared for it, and that was probably the biggest miracle of all.
A second pregnancy would be better, more carefree, simply because I'd already lived the experience (and survived it!). There would be risks and most likely the same physical challenges, but I wasn't going to fear it, or be constantly worried. I had learned so much with Isabella, I was sure to have a more normal experience. In fact, I honestly believed the most difficult part of having another baby would be making the decision to have another baby. It would take a big leap of faith for both Mark and me, but I felt confident we'd be watched over.
I learned I was pregnant in February of this year. Early on, Mark gave me a blessing (in our church, Mark holds the priesthood which allows him to give blessings, a kind of prayer said on behalf of another family member for illness or comfort) and in it he said that I would enjoy my pregnancy. This was beautiful to hear because it's exactly what I hoped for-to enjoy the adventure of having another baby.
At week 14, just as I was coming out of my first trimester, I had a cerclage stitch placed in my cervix with the hope that I could be more mobile and avoid bed rest altogether. It was a simple surgical procedure, and I recovered very quickly from it. Aside from the usual morning sickness and fatigue, I felt very positive and hopeful. Everything was moving forward as it should.
The first bump came, however, less than a month later, when my doctor told me that he didn't think the stitch was being effective. Although there were no guarantees that the procedure would work, I truly believed it would, so this was difficult news for me to hear. I left his office with instructions to be on a modified bed rest, to be off my feet whenever I could. I figured strict bed rest was inevitable given that this was happening earlier in this pregnancy than in my first. I went home and cried the rest of the day. This detour was not part of the plan. Getting a call from a genetic counselor two weeks after that, was a total derailment.
I was taking a break from resting, making lemon cakes with Isabella in the kitchen. When the woman on the phone identified herself as a genetic counselor, it was like someone had sucked the air right out of my lungs. I don't think I took a breath the entire time she was talking. Her call was to inform me that something was detected in my blood work that put the baby at a slightly higher risk (2%) for Down syndrome than the risk associated with my age (1%). She repeated the numbers over again so I could absorb what she was saying. The odds were in our favor; a 98% chance of having a healthy baby was pretty good. But I was stuck on the 2%. Someone had to be the 2%. Why not me? Why not our family? Why not this baby?
This was the moment when grief took hold of me. Even the possibility of having a baby with Down syndrome shattered me on the inside. There were other families in the world, far more qualified (more patient! more relaxed!) than ours, who could raise a baby with special needs. We'd had enough struggles bringing a "normal" baby into the world. This might break us. And then there were my own shortcomings. What if I couldn't love a less-than-perfect baby? The counselor informed me of the options for the next steps to find out something more conclusive. There was a certain amount of urgency for a decision because, as I learned, there's only a short window of time in which the termination of a pregnancy can happen.
Unlike me, Mark was immediately accepting of the news. He came home at 11 am from work the day of the phone call and listened to me tearfully relay all the information I'd been given. This was the moment he became the rock of our family. The ability to accept is his strength. His faith in embracing an unexpected change of course impressed me, but I was fighting everything he was saying to try to console me. I was not interested in terminating this pregnancy, but that didn't mean I wanted to accept a new reality. I wanted the baby. I didn't want the Down syndrome.
Over the next several weeks my heart broke over and over again. We opted to have a deeper ultrasound done which revealed 2 abnormalities in the baby: clubfeet and one kidney that was in an unusual place. These results even surprised our genetic counselor. She tried to reassure us that the two findings could be independent of any genetic disorder, and that they were not typical markers for Down syndrome. The doctor, however, was considering other chromosomal disorders more severe than Downs. Emotionally, I could not handle not knowing. I needed time to prepare myself for what was ahead. We decided to have an amniocentesis, the results, of which would take two weeks.
There is actual good that can come from waiting...and agonizing, like reflection and gaining perspective. For me this was more than just grief over Down syndrome. It was the loss of my hopes of an enjoyable, carefree pregnancy, the failure of my body, a less than "perfect" baby. This was not the course I imagined for this pregnancy or for the life of another child in our family, and my faith was shaken. My prayers had not been answered in the way I'd hoped. Then I came across this quote, which helped to ease the burden I was feeling:
"Just when all seems to be going right, challenges often come in multiple doses applied simultaneously. When those trials are not consequences of your disobedience, they are evidence that the Lord feels you are prepared to grow more. He therefore gives you experiences that stimulate growth, understanding, and compassion, which polish you for an everlasting benefit. To get you from where you are to where He wants you to be requires a lot of stretching, and that generally entails discomfort and pain."
I did not want to have to experience this kind of growing pain, but I realized that this trial was about my potential too, and that helped to loosen the grip of sadness. What did I have to learn? What did this baby need to teach me? What did I need to become?
Waiting for the test results also provided an opportunity for Mark and I to really pull together as a family, to think about our goals and our purpose as parents. We had long, emotional conversations almost every night, over those two weeks. The night before we were to receive the test results, we talked at length about what we should pray for; was it ok to ask for what we wanted--a perfectly healthy baby? Or should we pray for acceptance of what God wanted for us? We decided it was ok to ask for both, and so we did.
We knew Matthew had Down syndrome the moment our genetic counselor came and got us from the waiting room. Her affect gave her away. She led us to a room with a little couch to officially tell us the results.
"There is no easy way for me to say this," she said, "so I'm just going to tell you...the fetus has Down syndrome."
And wouldn't you know it, what struck me the most about receiving the news was not the bit about the Down syndrome but the fact that she'd referred to Matthew as "the fetus". I was halfway through my pregnancy, we knew his gender, and had just decided on his name. He was anything but "the fetus". I suppose counselors are trained to use technical terms when delivering bad news as a way of distancing themselves or maybe to soften the blow by making it less personal, but that seemed quite ironic to me. We really liked our counselor. We had a great rapport with her. She'd given us guidance during a difficult time. She was kind, compassionate, a New Yorker...and her job was to deliver the most personal, significant news we'd ever receive about our baby, and yet, I was stuck on her delivery.
I think that was the moment when my heart stopped breaking from pain and grief and a protectiveness of Matthew-my baby, our baby- set in. It was the first inkling of my bond with him. The sadness still lingered for a while after learning the results, but it never returned to the depths I'd felt before.
Maybe my heart had to break into a million pieces in order for me to accept Matthew's Down syndrome (it's still a process) and to love him the way he's supposed to be loved. For those reasons, I'm so, so grateful for the experience. I think too, my heart had to be prepared for the miracles that lay in store, because they came, and in great abundance.
