I know what you’re thinking. An ultrasound can only mean one thing. She’s pregnant.
But no. I used to think the same thing. Until last week’s tummy pain took me to the doc, and after a series of tests, finally prescribed me an ultrasound. Not to hear the first sounds of my child’s heartbeat, not to see a cute little foot or head, not to find out my child’s gender. But to see my own organs functioning (or not) for my own sake.
I didn’t want it this way. I wanted my first ultrasound to be the other way. I wanted Honey Dude there, beside me, holding my hand and smiling, overwhelmed by delight as we processed, with a deep sense of reality, what it all really meant. A baby. With a heartbeat. We were really going to be a mother and a father.
Instead, I was alone… and hungry from fasting 14 hours. As the technician rolled the gel-covered wand over my belly, I watched the screen for what were supposedly my organs. I listened to the sound of my body pumping blood. And I prayed. I prayed the tests would be conclusive, that I would be fine, and that someday I would return with Honey Dude for the real deal.
Even though he couldn’t join me for this round, Honey Dude texted and called, encouraging me through it. I whimpered my loss to him, saying I wished the ultrasound was for other reasons. His reply: God’s way is perfect. I nearly cried right then and there. How did I luck out with this man? When things get tricky, he turns to God. And he takes me with him. With countless unknowns ahead, I’m sure this characteristic of his will ground me again and again. I only hope I can do the same for him.