A God of Small Things

I laid on the exam table yesterday and prayed it would be over soon. The room was muggy and I hated having to lie flat on my back. I felt like I couldn't breathe. A by-product of my anxiety, plus the very real pressure of an enlarging uterus pushing up against my diaphragm and lungs. I eyed the door nervously, reached in my pocket for the reassurance of 2 little pills- one, Zofran and the other Xanax- and the barage of excuses I could use to make an escape pressed their way into my mind, before I even asked them to. I decided to split the Xanax in half in case I needed to take it, since it had been months since I needed one and I really didn't want to take it. Then, as if having it in my pocket wasn't close enough, I decided to hold it in between my thumb and forefinger.

I should have been excited to get my ultrasound, to have a chance to see Milo again. But more than anything, I just wanted out. I suddenly wished I had gone with my gut and declined the AFP test (alphafetoprotein) but instead, let the doctor talk me into having the extra peace of mind. If only it had really been that easy. The nurse called with my test results and said they were "slightly elevated." My risk assessment for having a baby with Spina Bifida rose from .5% to 1%. (Really?? You want me to come in for an extra ultrasound because there's a 99% chance that my baby is fine?) *insert eye roll here* I tried to put the worry of the tiny chance something was wrong out of my mind and instead, consoled myself with the fact that I would get more pictures of my little guy. But wait, I hate doctor's offices. I despise the sterile smell and the big equipment and the bland, oatmeal-colored walls and carpet and the fact that everyone talks in hushed voices. Talk about wanting to make an anxiety-prone person bolt for the door....DAMN them! Now I *had* to go back. I could have turned down the ultrasound, but then I would have had that 1% following me around for the rest of my pregnancy, painting scary images in my head. I knew that I had to put the worst case scenario out of my mind for good.

The lab tech came in and pressed the probe down on my belly, giving me a painful reminder of my full bladder and causing me to draw in a short, sharp breath. And there he was, this one-pound ball of flesh and bone, hiccup-ing and squirming around and otherwise, looking very content. I wondered, could he sense my tension? Could he feel that his Momma was scared? I took steady, deep breaths and focused on the perfection of his little silhouette. She took an extra long time looking at his spine and I started counting the discs and bones, (as if I knew what a perfect spine would look like if it came up and bit me). But at least, it took my mind off of my nerves. Despite having gone through pregnancy once before, I still found myself completely and utterly in awe that a whole entire body had been fused together inside of mine: the four chambers of his heart beating in perfect rhythm, the sections of his brain that had divided where they were supposed to, the curvature of his tiny spine, even the way he balled up his tiny fists and kept them close to his face. All of his tiny organs in place, continuing to grow and develop, but- as the tech reassured us- all working in perfect harmony with each other. I felt relief and gratitude wash over me. There were no obvious markers for Spina Bifida, just as we all had prayed. I momentarily wondered how on earth you could ever give someone news like that and suddenly I felt very grateful for my job as a piano teacher. I would never have to deliver devastating news like that.

But wait, we weren't done and the doctor would be back in to talk with us. What could this be about? Maybe just a follow-up? I groaned and flopped back on the table. My half-pill of Xanax had all but dissolved into a tiny speck in the clammy-ness of my fingers. I discreetly let the white powder and loose crumbles fall to the floor. The doctor came in, seeming very jovial, which put me at ease, and scanned over Milo's body while he asked us questions about what we did for a living. "I'm a piano teacher and my husband is a web-developer," I heard myself say, but I was distracted by the fact that he kept trying to zoom in to Milo's left hand. Come to think of it, the tech did the same thing. The doctor asked if Jake played any instruments too. The conversation faded as I studied the doctor's face. What was that he was counting? Oh God, please let everything be okay. They said everything was fine. Why was he concentrating like that?

Then, in a very matter-of-fact voice, he said "Well, he's stone cold normal, except that he only has 3 fingers and a thumb on his left hand. He's missing his pinky." As if he was telling me the weather forecast, or that the color of my shirt was light pink.

What??

Perhaps he missed the irony, but it wasn't lost on me: A piano teacher and a guitar player, having a baby with only 9 fingers. I thought, surely he was mistaken. Maybe it was just a bad angle, or a misplaced shadow. But no. He was, in his own words, 100% sure that Milo's left pinky was gone- most likely due to something called an "amniotic band," in which tissue wraps around a developing fetus's limbs or digits, creating a type of tourniquet by cutting off blood flow and ultimately resulting in a freaky kind of self-amputation.

I let it sink in for a minute. So our son wouldn't have a finger, and honestly, of all fingers- heck, of all body parts- to be missing when you're born- second only to your pinky toe- the pinky finger would be the one someone would miss the least, right? If we walked in worried about something as devastating as Spina Bifida and walked out minus one pinky, life was still good. Yes, life was still good. But the mommy in me struggled to accept a potential disability- no matter how small. A flood of questions and doubts entered my mind: Will he get picked on? Will he be embarrassed? Will he be able to throw a ball, play sports, play instruments, tie his shoes? I thought about how much I really use my pinky. I would obviously miss mine now, but he won't ever know the difference, so that makes it okay, right?

But it's not okay. I had to finally let myself admit it as I drove home. I felt ungrateful as the tears stung my eyes and fell silently onto my round belly. Of course, he was going to be a normal kid and live a good life if we had anything to do with it. He didn't have something devastating like a hole in his heart or a misplaced organ. His spine is perfect. He's beautiful and he's ours. But my conscience was heavy with a thought I wanted to destroy and never think again: He isn't as perfect as I wanted him to be. Not as perfect as he seemed before the doctor came in. And then, the harder pill for me to swallow came a few minutes later- that my idea of "perfection" is about as small as the box I try to make God fit inside. All I could think was that my son would be coming into this world at a small- however, instant- disadvantage, because not everything is where it should be. I wanted to mourn that little finger because it would be one less finger I get to kiss and hold when he's born. I have no doubt that I'll be too wrapped up in holding him and marveling at him once he gets here, but I don't- for one second- think that I won't want to wave a magic wand in the months and years down the road and make that pinky reappear for him, just so things might be that much easier, if only in a minuscule way. It seems so little. But I'm reminded that maybe that's what God wants me to see- that He's a God of the little things, just as much as He is a God of huge things. Perhaps this is a reminder that nothing is to ever be taken for granted, on any scale. The first time Milo drops a block into the shape sorter with his left hand, the first time he ties his shoes, the first song he learns on whatever instrument he chooses to play- they all become victories in a way they might never have been. Small things made spectacular. Or rather, spectacular things revealed to me in a brand new light, and one that asks me to throw my pre-conceived ideas out the window.


Milo isn't even here yet and already, he's teaching his Momma how to let go. I like this kid. <3