One of the happiest moments of my life was when I found out I was going to be a mom. That was a miracle in itself, since, due to medical issues, we had been told we wouldn’t be able to have kids. My husband, mother and I went to the 20-week ultrasound full of anticipation. We were hoping to find out if the little one I was carrying was a boy or girl. We quickly found out I was having a boy. We were ecstatic.
There were some odd things going on with our ultrasound tech, she seemed to be focusing extra attention around his heart, but that was something going on in periphery. It was noticeable, but we were still rejoicing to have a son. Then the doctor came in and told us the news. Our baby had a rare condition called hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS). Basically the left half of his heart would not develop; he would only have half a heart.
The news was stunning. I looked over to my crying mom. Tim looked like he had been physically hit. I reacted differently: I had to know everything. I wanted to soak up every word. I needed to know what was happening and what the next step needed to be. I was a human tape recorder at that moment, a “Mama Bear” protecting her cub.
Nothing would have prepared me for the next words, “I’m sorry I don’t know your convictions on this, so I need to ask, would you consider an abortion?” They were spoken kindly and gently, but were the ugliest words I had ever heard. “No, absolutely not” was the definite and quick answer. We had been advocates for the unborn child for years; there was no way that would have been considered. Then we were told about compassionate care, where basically the medical team just lets the baby die on his own naturally, with his parents – an awful, hideous thought. Then came another option: a series of open heart surgeries, spread throughout his early life, which allowed the blood to receive oxygen through the lungs. A heart transplant might be an option, meaning another child would have to die for mine to have that heart. A decision was made, we would try the surgeries and see what would happen.
I cried all the way home. I had so many thoughts running through my head. Do we set up a nursery? We have to be prepared for him, but if he doesn’t make it … ? When we got home, I threw myself on the bed and sobbed. Then something amazing happened, our son kicked like never before. He reminded me that he was there and I was not to count him out.
A phone call came the next day. A member of our church family, who did not know our news, had awoken in the night and needed to tell us: “God is God of the mountains, He’s the God of the valleys, He is God.” We started buying blue outfits that day. We had hope.
Recently we watched our healthy, happy 4-year-old participate in a gymnastics demonstration. There was no visible difference between him and the other kids. He is thriving! We don’t know what will happen with his heart, he’s through with the scheduled surgeries; we continue to hope. Our God is greater than a doctor’s diagnosis. No matter how bad things seem, cling to Him, and the hope He is offering.
Ps. 71:14 states “But as for me, I will always have hope.”