The bleeding had gone on for days, sometimes coming in a sudden gush. A complete evaluation revealed the cause. One that was rare so early on in a pregnancy.
“You’ve had a severe partial abruption,” the doctor said. “The placenta has torn away from the uterus.” My husband, Mark, squeezed my hand. “You won’t carry this baby to term. I’m sorry.”
As a registered nurse, one who had worked in OB-GYN, I knew there was no treatment that could stop the placenta from detaching completely, and there was no way to reattach my baby’s life support system in the womb. If I were further along, immediate delivery might have been an option. But not at 16 weeks. The baby didn’t seem to have a chance.
“We need to go home and take care of our boys,” I said. “Make arrangements in case I wind up in the hospital.”
“You could miscarry at any moment,” the doctor warned. “Don’t put your own life in danger.”
I knew what he was thinking. “I won’t end this pregnancy.”
Out in the parking lot, Mark and I held each other and cried. I was so grateful to have him there with me—especially since I hadn’t expected him to be there at all. He was supposed to be at work, but he’d appeared in the waiting room just before the doctor called me in. Mark had gone into the office only to learn he’d been laid off from his job.
On any other day this would have been devastating news. We were already struggling financially. Now we had to subsist on my part-time salary. But our fear of losing the baby made everything else seem small.
It had taken us years to conceive for the first time. Then I had two miscarriages. Complications in my first pregnancy led to a Cesarean delivery. During my second, I suffered with two herniated discs. But it was all worth it for my little boys, Tyler, six, and Joshua, four.
Mark put me straight to bed when we got home. I stared up at the ceiling. Outside the bedroom, I could hear Mark talking to the boys. I turned on my side, curling into myself, and cried. Please, God, you can fix anything. Fix this for us. I was terrified of what was going to happen. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my baby.
I lay there, listening to Mark and the boys shuffle downstairs. “Let Mom rest for a while,” he whispered.
I could barely hear the light clink of dishes and silverware as Mark made their dinner. I closed my eyes and tried to relax in the quiet. “He will live to see the light of day.” I opened my eyes to the voice, my grief and fear dissolving. “Mark!” I called.
I could hear him taking the stairs two at a time. “Do you need the doctor?” he said, bursting into the room. I shook my head and asked him to sit down next to me. Taking his hand, I told Mark what I’d just experienced. I knew it sounded crazy, but I had never in my life felt so happy. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I said. “I heard a voice—like Samuel did in the Bible.”
Exactly like Samuel, I realized. Samuel was woken by a familiar voice calling his name. He ran to his teacher, thinking he had called. The voice I heard was familiar too—as familiar as the voice of my own husband. It was completely familiar, and yet I’d never heard it before.
“My guardian angel told me that God’s going to save our baby.”
Mark stared at me, his blue eyes going wide. He tried to take it in. His jaw relaxed, and I heard hope in his voice. “Are you sure?”
“Mark, I’ve never been so sure of anything, ever!” It wasn’t just that I knew that the baby would be okay. I also felt intimately connected to God. Connected like never before. God was watching over me and my family.
I called my doctor to say I was resolute. Once convinced of my determination to continue the pregnancy, he gave me strict orders to stay in bed until further notice. “Lie perfectly flat,” he said. “Your meals are to be taken on your side.”
My two little sons. How could I care for them without getting out of bed? But Mark would be at home! The layoff felt like a blessing.
We settled into a routine. Mark ran errands, cooked, did the laundry, cleaned the house. I stayed in bed 24/7, leaving it only for quick trips to the bathroom or necessary checkups with the doctor. The boys came to wake me each morning. In the afternoons they got into bed with me for games and homework.
In the evenings we all cuddled together for storytime. Money was a problem, of course. Our savings ran low. We stretched my sick-leave paycheck as far as it would go, and used credit cards to make up the difference.
One evening, leaning on Mark’s shoulder, with Tyler and Joshua curled up between us, I realized that these months, hard as they were, were some of the happiest for our family. The bed rest turned out to be another blessing.
In my seventh month my doctor gave me the okay to return to part-time work. He couldn’t explain how I hadn’t miscarried, and now believed I’d carry the baby to term.
On my first day back at work, I got a call from Mark. “My boss called. They want me back.”
God had arranged his blessings perfectly. When our third son was born two months later, Mark and I named him Samuel. I don’t know when I will hear the angel’s voice again, but I am always listening.
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