I married a man who writes Football game plans and has done so for over half his life for a living. He lives and thinks offensively and strategically. So why would I think when the doctor told us after my first reproductive corrective surgery that we should not attempt to grow our family the traditional way by getting pregnant or to carry a pregnancy to full term that my husband would not have a backup plan?
On that faithful morning in 2016, I sat in the passenger seat of my husband’s car, the only attendee of a petty party of one with a 6 to 9-inch incision on my abdomen, sealed with stitches and staples with pain medication beginning to wear off. I felt like the workweek midday Houston traffic was mocking me. A usually 45-minute drive was crawling. When my husband suggested, we attend a foster-to-adoptive parent informational session on Saturday, only days away. I thought to myself, he has to be kidding me, right? I have been barely out of the hospital for an hour with the dream-shattering medical advisory for less than a day, and this man wants to talk to me about fostering to adoption. Instead of being wholly offended, I kept silent. I was told that silence, at times, can be the best defense. And, in that silence, God speaks volumes.
We knew my Myomectomy (uterine fibroid removal) surgery would be risky. Almost two years prior, my first gynecology encounter ended with the sweet doctor telling me she referred me to an ovarian oncologist because my uterus was enlarged. It was filled with masses called fibroids, benign non-cancerous tumors. She recommended that at 34 years old, I have a hysterectomy to alleviate my heavy periods and improve my quality of life. Indirectly, I heard her telling me that I might be barren. Still a newlywed, my husband moved me away from all that I knew, my family and friends. In response to her diagnosis, all I could say was, “It’s ok; I know I will be a mother. God told me I would be a Mom. He didn’t tell me how just that I would be.” My faith was speaking because my flesh was in fight or flight mode.
I got dressed, left her office, and went and sat in my car with the windows rolled down. The tears began to trickle down my face; still new to driving, I called my sister, one of my best friends, so that she could agree with me in prayer. I did not want to feed my fears. I didn’t want to get in an accident thinking what-ifs. I needed to set the tone. I knew Oji and I were about to go into battle, but God had already told us we won the war. We would be parents.
To be continued in Part Four
© 2023, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.