This is the story of how my son came to be. I was 19 he was 37, I thought that he was the one, he was my first and as I saw it my last. It was only the second time that it had happened and I was indeed naive enough to believe that I wouldn't get pregnant. One month later, I'm sitting in the bathroom staring in disbelief at the array of positive pregnancy tests laid out before me waiting for him to come home. He walks in the door, comes around the corner to see me laying on the bed, he asks what's wrong and all I can do is point to the bathroom. He was ecstatic, he ran into the bedroom, hugged me and whispered "Thank you."
I on the other hand was not so ecstatic, I knew how my family was going to take the news. 19, unmarried, no college education, low paying job, no permanent living situation, not really their ideal for a mother. I was eating dinner at my parent's house one night and I just broke down at the kitchen table. My mother walked up to my room with me and asked what was wrong. I walked over to my purse and pulled out a Ziploc filled with the positive pregnancy tests. The moment my mother saw them, she sank to the bed next to me and started crying. After a few moments, she looked at me, patted my leg and said, "Honey, it's alright, we'll find the money to take take care of it. No one will have to know." Immediately my tears dried, my back stiffened and my eyes locked with my mother's. All the sadness that I had inside for this abrupt change in my life morphed into disbelief at her comment, anger at her ignorance and then determination to do the right thing. My mother called family members to see if they could convince me to "take care of it." All of them failed. I was determined to see this through. My family finally decided to give up, but not only on changing my mind, but on me too. My family walked away from me to let me live my life with the choice I had made. I had many doubts about the choice that I made. I ran over all of the options in my head and I wavered on if this was the right thing to do. There were options out there, why didn't I just take them and pretend that life was normal again? These questions plagued me day in and day out.
A month later, I went into the bathroom and saw spotting. I brushed it off as a fluke, about an hour later, heavier spotting; then the floodgates opened. I called my mother and the baby's father to let them know I was going to the emergency room; that I was having a miscarriage. I remember sitting in the hospital praying and begging that God let me keep my baby. They brought me to the room for a sonogram. I lay there on the table watching the screen, waiting to see something that even resembled a baby. Nothing. I watched some more, then, there it was…my baby…they turned on the volume…there was heartbeat, beating in time with mine. The guilt of ever doubting that I was doing the right thing washed over me and I felt a pain inside like nothing I'd ever felt before. A second technician came into the room with a picture, they handed it to me. It was a beautiful, color print of my baby. I said, thank you, knowing that this would probably be the only link I would have to my child. They took me back to my room and the doctor explained that I was indeed having a miscarriage and that it would probably be wise if I just let them, "take care of it." I cringed at that phrase I had heard so many times before. I refused. The doctor and my family urged me to do it so that I would not be in any danger myself. I didn't care, as long as that baby had a heartbeat, it was still my choice and my choice was to take my chances and pray for the best. The doctor released me from the hospital ordering bed rest until the completion of the miscarriage and asked me to come back in a few days to make sure that everything was okay.
A few days passed…then a week, then a month. My baby was still there, getting stronger and bigger every day. I went for a check up, they did another sonogram, there was no sign on bleeding, no sign of any damage and no sign that there had ever been anything wrong. I was going to keep my baby.
The remainder of the pregnancy was no picnic for me, alternating periods of bed rest, braxton hicks contractions, sciatica, nausea, whatever you can imagine, I went through. The baby's father and I had long since broken up, but I was living in the basement of his house because I still couldn't go back to my parent's. My job and money situation hadn't improved any. I started thinking again, "Did I do the right thing? Is this the kind of place to raise a child? Am I ready for this?" Then the day came when the real contractions hit. It was four weeks early. I went to my doctor they immediately sent me to the hospital. I was terrified that I had made it this far and that something would go wrong, that he was going to be born early and wouldn't make it. I went into labor that afternoon and early the next morning, I was laying in bed snuggling up next to my healthy, beautiful, perfect baby boy. I named him Noah after Genesis 6:8…"But Noah found grace in the eyes of the LORD."