Her tone was calm and steady but her words chilled my heart. “Mom,” said my newly-pregnant daughter in South Carolina, “I’ve been having cramps all afternoon. Do you think that’s a problem?”
And my heart began to race. I know the agony of miscarriage and the hollow of waiting out the days, hoping for healing and restoration.
We talked. She was already resting and I had little advice. Wait. We’ll all know soon if this is a problem.
When the phone rang the next morning, I saw her name on the caller ID. “How’s it going?” I whispered.
“We called the doctor,” she said quietly. “The pain got worse. He thinks it’s either an ectopic pregnancy or a cyst, but not likely to be a cyst.”
My role changed in an instant to a comforter. We talked about the glimmer of hope but moved to the more-likely scenario. “Do you ever miss the babies you lost?” she asked. “Does it bother you to talk about this?”
Yes. No. I’m here to listen and to share the hurt.
This was the daughter who once wanted me to move away. At age 8, she had lost her mother in a car accident. I was only a smoky substitute, not able to fill her heart. She drifted through her teen years angrily and only after she left for college were we able to begin to repair the rift.
But now…. But now, we shared our hearts as mothers consumed with anxiety over children. “Thanks for listening,” she said finally. “I love you.”
The call came a few hours later. They had opted to go to the emergency room, tired of the hours of anxiety and wanting final answers. An ultrasound revealed her condition.
“The baby’s fine! It was a cyst. We got to see the heartbeat and I have a definite due date now.” Together we rejoiced over God’s grace.
She and her husband will be home at Christmas and I will give her hugs of joy then. We’ll celebrate that God restored children – hers and mine.