Hope deferred makes the heart sick.
The Bible says so (Proverbs 13:12). And my life proves it.
I’m sick. Sick from hope. Sick from waiting. Sick from wondering what will happen next. Sick from being sick of being sick of this sickness.
I am processing the grief of losing a child to an ectopic pregnancy that almost killed me. It was located along the abdominal wall, of all places. During that disaster, I nearly lost my entire blood supply. And I definitely lost a fallopian tube, an ovary, part of my bowel, and my appendix. Adding fuel to that dumpster fire, I also had a stroke. It was a messy situation. And, in so many ways, it still is a messy situation. Especially my emotions.
My husband and I hoped for a child for a long time. After a lot of waiting, we got pregnant. We had a lot of hope for the future of our family. It was supposed to be a wonderful dream come true. Instead, it was a miserable nightmare. I was dreadfully uncomfortable and in perpetual pain during most of my pregnancy. I was not enjoying myself.
I did the typical thing many pregnant people do these days. I guarded my heart until week 12. I didn’t want to get too excited for the future till I passed that magic mark in the pregnancy timeline when miscarriage becomes less likely. I didn’t let myself believe it was real till week 12. But then I did. For two weeks, I really did have so much hope for the future. But it all met it’s bitter end in week 14.
I fell unconscious — in the arms of my husband — in a parking lot on a very cold day in January. I awoke (still cold), heavily medicated, in an ICU room, surrounded by people who loved me, an arsenal of nurses and doctors, and a chorus of confusion and questions swirling through my mind.
Questions like: What day is it? It’s February? What happened to the end of January? How did I get here? Do my friends know? Does my employer know? Why am I in so much pain? Why am I tethered to this bed? Oh no! Is the baby ok? He isn’t ok? He? We were having a boy? We lost him? I had surgery? Oh? Two surgeries? They removed how many organs? I lost how much blood? I almost died? What? Why can’t I see the lower left side of my vision? Huh? How? What?
My husband and family had to tell me the story of what happened like 40 times. Each time I awoke from my sedated state, I didn’t remember the details of what happened. So they told me the heartbreaking tale dozens of times. It was rough. On the story tellers. And on the story hearer. Eventually, I started remembering what they were telling me. But after I remembered, I wished I could forget, or read a different story.
Several months of recovery and several thousands of dollars in medical bills later, here I sit.
The Hope Deferred
Though my hope — and my life — were nearly snuffed out, an ember of each remained. With tender stewarding, they grew brighter and stronger. God sustained my life. Countless people encouraged me during that dark time. The prayers of so many gave me the strength to carry on.
Hope has been deferred, delayed, and nearly destroyed. But it remains.
I will continue trying to get well soon. One prayer at a time. One day at a time. One blog at a time.