We are pregnant!
We had told several family and friends, but this morning we were able to share the news with my two wonderful congregations, who have walked with us through two cancer diagnoses an engagement, and a wedding. What a joy it was to share with them! Obviously, they were happy.
In a chance turn of events, my due date is August 24, which is three years to the day after my initial diagnosis. Since every health decision I have made since August 24, 2012 was with the hope of having children in mind, I find in this such a beautiful harmony, a wonderful nod to the new life that was found post-cancer. Isn't God amazing?
If you couldn't tell by how transparent I am in this blog, it has been killing me to keep this a secret. I process things by writing, but I couldn't write anything on my blog until everyone knew. I did do some writing, in the form of a couple of letters to our little one. So now that everyone knows, I thought I would share them with you, to give you a glimpse of what our 2015 has been like so far. The following letter is one I wrote a few hours after we found out, that says a bit about where I am emotionally about this (incredible, unbelievable, terrifying, exciting) news.
~ ~ ~
December 31, 2014
My dearest love,
I am sitting in the quiet of our living room with your dad
and Klaus, our Dachshund, with the lights of our Christmas tree sparkling
beside us, and covered in the coziness of quilts. Just a few hours ago, we
found out you exist. Even though at this point, you are still just the size of
a lentil, I am already in love with you. We have wanted you. We have longed for
you. I have shed tears waiting for you. And we shed tears again this morning –
but these were tears of joy, as your dad and I collapsed together in a tight
hug, laughing with joy, delight, and a healthy dose of terror that our dreams
were finally coming true.
It has been a tough journey to this day (a day I have
visualized so many times). Two years ago, as your dad and I were dreaming of
our future together, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. My decisions about
treatment were always with the hope of you in mind, even though you were a long
way from existing. I conservatively chose to keep my breast so that I could one
day feed my children with it. Alas, 6 months later cancer developed again and I
bid farewell to the dream of feeding my children with milk from my own body. It
was a necessary decision, painful as it was for my body and my heart.
But as I looked down at that positive pregnancy test this
morning, I was grateful it was the decision we made. I stared at that stick for
several seconds, not sure whether to believe it could be true. The longer I
stared, the more true it became. I brought it to your dad, who was still in
bed, and said I needed a second opinion. As he looked at it himself to try to
decipher it, I added, “But it looks to me like we are having a baby.” Michael
burst out laughing, a behavior that has continued all day as he realizes again
and again that this thing for which we have both longed is finally coming to
pass. I crawled into bed beside him, wrapped my arms around him and we giggled
and rolled around in delight.
Joy. Fear. Already these seeming opposites go hand in hand.
I had previously felt the fear that this might never happen, after so many
months of disappointment, after so many risk factors, after so many events that
tried to take this hope from me. That fear has been replaced by disbelieving
joy, even as another fear far greater has emerged that something else will go
wrong to take it all away again.
But I love you so much already. As I sit quietly on the
couch, I am visualizing you in my womb, finding your way, making yourself
comfortable, settling in for (what I pray will be) the duration. I don’t know
much about the facts of human physiology, but in my mind, what is surrounding
you in my womb and protecting you is a cloud of pure love. It is on all sides,
cradling you, nourishing you. (Also nourishing you is what are already becoming
my various cravings – you will be happy to know that tonight we will be
enjoying the deliciousness of Mamasan, some of the yummiest Asian food in
 |
| The night we found out, at Mamasan's restaurant. Happy and glowing parents-to-be! |
You will learn about me that I can be a little dramatic at
times in my expression of things. For instance, in one of our first exchanges,
I told your dad that Cake, a band we both like, “sings the song of my soul.” A
little much, yes. Let’s just say I feel things deeply and sincerely. And so at
the risk of seeming a little dramatic, dear one, let me tell you this:
It is appropriate that we learned about your existence on
the eve of a new year, because this is a time when people often think about
what new (or renewed) thing to embrace in the year to come. For me this year,
the answer is: you. You are the newness I embrace, even as I hope to let go of
the fear of the previous months. Because to me, you represent the new beginning
I craved throughout cancer treatments. You represent a purpose fulfilled, a
purpose I have felt all my life and have prayed and prayed would come to
fruition. You represent the return of a hope threatened. As I let cancer have
some things that were important to me, I clung to the hope of a future with
you. You represent a joy remembered, a
joy I have dreamed about and imagined.
These first couple of years of marriage for your dad and me
have been wrought with illness, loss, Big Decisions, and the threat of things
important being taken away, even as we have been surrounded by loving family
and friends and the promises of a loving God. But now we have received a gift,
a gift that reinforces that those things – purpose, hope, joy – were never
really lost.
I will pray for you every day, my love. I will do my best to
take care of you. I will nourish you, sing to you, and do my best to take care
of your temporary home so that you will be equipped for the world. God bless
you, my sweet.
Love,
 |
| Our Facebook announcement, posted this afternoon! |
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