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The Blessing From A Curse

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The Blessing From A Curse

“You can’t get pregnant because you’re not ovulating.  However, we need to concentrate on the precancerous cells on your cervix.” The tartness and uncaring attitude of the gynecologist continued to rub me wrong, but I respected her straightforwardness.

“Precancerous cells?” Doctors had warned me from age 16 about the possibilities of being barren all my life from Endometriosis, but this enlightened a new challenge. At the age of 11, I learned cancer meant death, families split up and failure. My blood bypassed its function to intake oxygen and my soul prepared to detach from my body. “Well, what do we need to do about the precancerous cells?” The hairs on my arms stood at attention above my knocking knees and weak ankles. We scheduled the LEEP procedure and she prescribed hormone therapy in the hopes of avoiding another abnormal period during the surgery.

The next few weeks lacked life, liberty and any pursuit of happiness. A new strain formed in our marriage about the future possibilities of my chances of survival. Our nerves were already fried from practicing the Orthodox Niddah laws despite never being considered clean. I had menstruated every two weeks without ovulating, leaving us to avoid any marital relations for six months. The doctor never forbade any activities before the surgery, but for the following 6 weeks. Thanks to the pills for the first time in months, I lacked menstruation therefore we gave up on Niddah, finding comfort in each other’s arms.

The surgery date fell on a Wednesday. Would I die on the table? I didn’t trust the doctor nor the nurses performing the surgery. Staring past the menacing spotlight, I focused on the stars beyond the ceiling. “God, I am in your hands.” I passed out. Waking to find a merciful God, I discovered newfound strength entering my bones! My work on this planet was not done! Friday arrived, but I moped, whining about the increasing pain and lack of gumption.

Hubby insisted, “Daylight will do you some good! You haven’t been out of the house in months. I need to go on this business trip, but we are going to meet up with your best friend’s husband. I am still getting to know them. Come on, I need you as my wingman.” I complied and attempted to ‘fake it till I made it’. The 2-hour trip took all my strength. I slept in the car while the two men chatted for a few hours.

On the return trip, I lost ambition and cast aside my promise to drive home. Hubby had worked a 70 hour week and had endured three hours of sleep the night before. Caring less about appearing weak in front of anyone including my husband, I refused to drive or check out the passing beautiful scenery. The passenger seat hugged me, tricking me into an unnatural coma. When I awoke, I begged, pleaded and whined worse than a toddler. No words of comfort from my husband could ease pain and loss of hope. I ordered a pitstop every so many a mile. Hubby nudged me awake until I found my various surroundings accommodating my needs. After three trips of sprinting inside the gas stations, hubby quizzed me about my unnerving motives. Semi-newlyweds embarked on the awkward conversation, discussing my duties in the restrooms. Instead of worshiping the porcelain alter, I explained the lack of bowels, but the oversoaking and filling the toilets with huge clots.  Hubby, a typical recovering bachelor, remained ignorant in the ways of female troubles. I begged to visit a large hospital before falling asleep again. Waking up at home instead of the big city, I bawled all the way up the stairs, allowing the blood clots to fill my black loose jeans. Hubby joined me in the restroom, defending his choice to check out my troubles at a smaller ‘trusted’ medical facility.

Hubby’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped when he stepped in the doorway. Blood clots the size of his fist, filled the tub plop after plop with my trembling contractions. Within two shakes of a lamb’s tail, hubby rushed me to the hospital. We were greeted by the E.R doctor. Horror filled his eyes, but he only confided in hubby that he might lose me on the table. During the examination, hubby and the doctor found even larger clots. I was losing too much blood for the average human! The exam was set aside, but I was given ice chips to soothe my dry lips. Receiving the test results, he concluded, “She is miscarrying.”

“I can’t miscarry. I can’t get pregnant!” Hubby concurred. My blood slowed down, but not before I blacked out in the hospital. The hospital staff scratched their heads in confusion and ordered bed rest. The HCG beta levels increased with a normalcy of a regular pregnancy. “You’re not miscarrying, but you’re barely pregnant!”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle that you’re alive and now you have a miracle growing in you!” I returned home only to visit the mean Gynecologist, insisting her lack of medical fault. ‘We had to have defied her orders by conceiving after surgery’. However, hubby and I knew better! We fired her and then visited a second opinion. The new doctor concluded that the baby had been safe in the fallopian tubes during the terribly invasive procedure, my cervix prepared for pregnancy and continued to heal from the surgery. My high-risk pregnancy included two doctors blessing us with sonogram after sonogram. We watched the ‘Little Bean’ grow into a fetus right before our own eyes!

I didn’t milk the goat, nor did I chase chickens because my sole purpose remained feeding the miracle. After four months of pacing the world in shock, I prayed. “God. What do I do? What do I call him? It’s apparent that he is going to grow into a baby and be delivered into the real world.” I recalled when I was age 17 and the many times I lived and relived the story in 1 Samuel about Hannah and Eli.

A man’s voice calling an unknown soul in my house frightened me!

“Honey, is that you?” I called out again but checked the clock. No flesh and blood roamed the house and hubby worked hard hours. Trembling, I knelt. “God. What do you want from me? What do you want me to call our child? This babe is clearly from You.”

The angel roamed through our house and stood just outside my bedroom door. I knew he was there, but I couldn’t look at the ghostly cloak flowing. Peace filled my heart. I heard the angel tell me my boy’s name. I promised to raise him as such. “But, wait. What is his middle name?”

“No need to worry. It will come to you before he is born. You will deliver him safe and he will grow up, reminding others of the Creator’s foundation.”

Our firstborn has inspired many over the years from another miraculous story of him beating the odds, but I thought it was time to share Survivor’s tale from the very beginning.

 

Jae Byrd Wells, author of the science fiction Tales From School Series and the inspirational humorous series, Get the Bubblewrap, Jae, is a national speaker and social media consultant. She graduated with a Letter & College Scholarship for filming football. After dabbling in modeling, she studied Marketing and Media in College which semi-prepared her for her career in the world of Entertainment. Her colored and rocky past in the desert called life has not robbed her continued thirst for adventure which enables her to inspire those around her to not lose faith, love, chivalry, and respect. When she’s not busy engaging on social media, writing, teaching, consulting, cohosting radio shows, or speaking, Jae enjoys life as a pioneer, geek, cosplayer, and movie buff. She lives with her husband, four children (5, if you include the parrot) and her ‘petting zoo’ in Kansas.

 

 

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