A Tribute to the Spark
My fingers click laptop keys, and pictures of rosy cheeks, youthful freckles, and all-teeth smiles illuminate my emptiness. I see boys in striped shirts and girls in patterned smocks soak up the sun. Laughing little people work on art projects or get their faces painted— pictures of happiness.
This organization’s snapshots did not fill my screen last year, even though curiosity could have rendered them. Then, I refused to search it. Now, I’ve spent empty, depressed hours searching much: Late-onset Group B Strep, Meningitis, and more. I already know the available information. Still, I lie on the floor and search for absolute answers that no human entity can really provide. I obsess over statistics and likelihoods, realizing the ridiculousness.
I vividly remember a pivotal day. Pat’s arm held my shoulders tight into his torso. My planned outfit— pink maternity tank and striped maxi-skirt— displayed my growing baby bump. Tears washed away makeup applied in excitement that morning. We walked back into the hot, hospital parking lot on July 23rd, 2013, after a presumed-typical midpregnancy ultrasound turned into gut-wrenching, world-shifting, amniocentesis-drawing hours. Words echoed.
“We’re not suppose to print this many,” the technician said, as the buzzing machine dispensed a long reel of black and white scans. “But she has such an unusually pretty profile, I can’t resist.”
She.
“There are some issues with the images,” my OB later said, face serious and voice soft, as we sat in an exam room. She took a visible breath and continued, eye contact unwavering. “They show what looks like Spina Bifida.”
Spina Bifida.
Of all the words I’d worried about hearing, these were not really among them. But here they were: words that induced collapse. No descriptions could express the emotions of the hours following this shocking diagnosis. Yet the overwhelming love we felt for our she— our daughter— monopolized our hearts.
Our growing baby and supportive family kept us incredibly positive, as we had every reason to be. Over the coming months, in our living room recliner, we watched the increasingly-distinct waves of my round belly, exclaiming for her, “here I go!” and “watch me dance!” as her little foot waved around my belly button. I prayed for her hourly and sang to her often. Her frequent ultrasound pictures astounded us; an incredible little life sucked her thumb, hiccupped, stuck out her tongue, waved, and moved all around. Spina Bifida would not define our daughter, which is why we kept these special circumstances very private.
I refused to research Spina Bifida. I knew we were blessed. Our special baby girl could live a fulfilling life; some parents do not receive such hopeful news, and my heart breaks for them. Our specialist never shared anything but promising prognosis as we watched our baby’s mesmerizing images dance across the screen. We understood the possible implications, namely partial paralysis, bladder or bowel dysfunction, and hydrocephalus. I knew Eva to be perfectly amazing, as I felt her life inside of me. We thanked God every day for her. No Internet source could enlighten our faith or hope more or further solidify the lyrics I sang to her often, “…’cause you’re amazing- just the way you are.”
Eventually, as tired, grateful, and nervous new daddy and mommy, we watched the neonatologist bend over our healthy, pretty, and strong daughter. He roped the stethoscope around his neck and said, “Now, she may not be able to move her legs much.” He lightly touched her shin, and Eva promptly and forcefully kicked him. His surprised expression delighted us beaming, proud parents. “Never mind, then,” he said, finishing the exam. As he left, we hurried to grab her grasping hands, stroke her soft, long hair, and kiss her full cheeks.
“You go, baby girl,” we cooed to our miracle. “You prove ‘em wrong.”
Medical statistics would suggest that Eva would not have the strength in her legs that she did. Internet searches would state that she’d go home with special urological needs, but she didn’t. Before her birth, the neurosurgery P.A. said she would likely need a shunt for hydrocephalus, but she never did.
Eva proliferated miracles.
We would love Eva regardless of any condition. She did have some special physical needs, so we scheduled appointments and therapies. As life with Eva began, caring for our amazing newborn at home and holding her tight, we anticipated a journey wholly unique, continually miraculous, and enduringly beautiful.
In countless, unexpected ways, that is what we received. Eva —so special, so healthy, and so loved— gave us so much. Late-onset Group B Strep has nothing to do with Spina Bifida, for the record. I relate to the quote from a great book, “It never is what you worry over that comes to pass in the end. The real catastrophes are always different—unimagined, unprepared for, unknown.”
I now look back on July 23rd as the spark of an endless series of miracles that began our unique journey.
My heart reaches through the computer screen to set my souled imagination in those happy little people’s sunshine sweetness, with my own little girl of wide-eyed smiles. Some of the children doing artwork and getting face-paint sit in their wheelchairs, while others rest near walkers or stand with their camouflage or pink leg braces. Their lovely faces show glee and their parents show pride. I look up Spina Bifida now. I search the pages desperately wanting to fit back into that life with Eva and care for our incredible angel.
I shift my cursor up to search other things. I want to find answers to the non-answerable— the questions that persist in my mind regarding devastation of the past and uncertainties of the future. But the search is ridiculous, so I stop. We can not understand the devastation of the past or the uncertainties of the future. We do understand, through Eva’s profound life and the events since July 23rd, that miracles and their Maker and eternity shared with Eva are bigger than any human quandaries.
My fingers click laptop keys, and pictures of rosy cheeks, youthful freckles, and all-teeth smiles illuminate my emptiness. I see boys in striped shirts and girls in patterned smocks soak up the sun. Laughing little people work on art projects or get their faces painted— pictures of happiness.
This organization’s snapshots did not fill my screen last year, even though curiosity could have rendered them. Then, I refused to search it. Now, I’ve spent empty, depressed hours searching much: Late-onset Group B Strep, Meningitis, and more. I already know the available information. Still, I lie on the floor and search for absolute answers that no human entity can really provide. I obsess over statistics and likelihoods, realizing the ridiculousness.
I vividly remember a pivotal day. Pat’s arm held my shoulders tight into his torso. My planned outfit— pink maternity tank and striped maxi-skirt— displayed my growing baby bump. Tears washed away makeup applied in excitement that morning. We walked back into the hot, hospital parking lot on July 23rd, 2013, after a presumed-typical midpregnancy ultrasound turned into gut-wrenching, world-shifting, amniocentesis-drawing hours. Words echoed.
“We’re not suppose to print this many,” the technician said, as the buzzing machine dispensed a long reel of black and white scans. “But she has such an unusually pretty profile, I can’t resist.”
She.
“There are some issues with the images,” my OB later said, face serious and voice soft, as we sat in an exam room. She took a visible breath and continued, eye contact unwavering. “They show what looks like Spina Bifida.”
Spina Bifida.
Of all the words I’d worried about hearing, these were not really among them. But here they were: words that induced collapse. No descriptions could express the emotions of the hours following this shocking diagnosis. Yet the overwhelming love we felt for our she— our daughter— monopolized our hearts.
Our growing baby and supportive family kept us incredibly positive, as we had every reason to be. Over the coming months, in our living room recliner, we watched the increasingly-distinct waves of my round belly, exclaiming for her, “here I go!” and “watch me dance!” as her little foot waved around my belly button. I prayed for her hourly and sang to her often. Her frequent ultrasound pictures astounded us; an incredible little life sucked her thumb, hiccupped, stuck out her tongue, waved, and moved all around. Spina Bifida would not define our daughter, which is why we kept these special circumstances very private.
I refused to research Spina Bifida. I knew we were blessed. Our special baby girl could live a fulfilling life; some parents do not receive such hopeful news, and my heart breaks for them. Our specialist never shared anything but promising prognosis as we watched our baby’s mesmerizing images dance across the screen. We understood the possible implications, namely partial paralysis, bladder or bowel dysfunction, and hydrocephalus. I knew Eva to be perfectly amazing, as I felt her life inside of me. We thanked God every day for her. No Internet source could enlighten our faith or hope more or further solidify the lyrics I sang to her often, “…’cause you’re amazing- just the way you are.”
Eventually, as tired, grateful, and nervous new daddy and mommy, we watched the neonatologist bend over our healthy, pretty, and strong daughter. He roped the stethoscope around his neck and said, “Now, she may not be able to move her legs much.” He lightly touched her shin, and Eva promptly and forcefully kicked him. His surprised expression delighted us beaming, proud parents. “Never mind, then,” he said, finishing the exam. As he left, we hurried to grab her grasping hands, stroke her soft, long hair, and kiss her full cheeks.
“You go, baby girl,” we cooed to our miracle. “You prove ‘em wrong.”
Medical statistics would suggest that Eva would not have the strength in her legs that she did. Internet searches would state that she’d go home with special urological needs, but she didn’t. Before her birth, the neurosurgery P.A. said she would likely need a shunt for hydrocephalus, but she never did.
Eva proliferated miracles.
We would love Eva regardless of any condition. She did have some special physical needs, so we scheduled appointments and therapies. As life with Eva began, caring for our amazing newborn at home and holding her tight, we anticipated a journey wholly unique, continually miraculous, and enduringly beautiful.
In countless, unexpected ways, that is what we received. Eva —so special, so healthy, and so loved— gave us so much. Late-onset Group B Strep has nothing to do with Spina Bifida, for the record. I relate to the quote from a great book, “It never is what you worry over that comes to pass in the end. The real catastrophes are always different—unimagined, unprepared for, unknown.”
I now look back on July 23rd as the spark of an endless series of miracles that began our unique journey.
My heart reaches through the computer screen to set my souled imagination in those happy little people’s sunshine sweetness, with my own little girl of wide-eyed smiles. Some of the children doing artwork and getting face-paint sit in their wheelchairs, while others rest near walkers or stand with their camouflage or pink leg braces. Their lovely faces show glee and their parents show pride. I look up Spina Bifida now. I search the pages desperately wanting to fit back into that life with Eva and care for our incredible angel.
I shift my cursor up to search other things. I want to find answers to the non-answerable— the questions that persist in my mind regarding devastation of the past and uncertainties of the future. But the search is ridiculous, so I stop. We can not understand the devastation of the past or the uncertainties of the future. We do understand, through Eva’s profound life and the events since July 23rd, that miracles and their Maker and eternity shared with Eva are bigger than any human quandaries.