A Christmas story

Earlier this week, I was trying to take a photo of our Advent wreath set-up. 

(Also, yes, I know, my photography skills always leave something to be desired.)

Then I looked down and saw this precious sight:

Elijah, balanced on my hip, was watching me the whole time.

This picture says so much about he is: 

quietly and sweetly observing his world, but always close by to me. 

His life is very much influenced, perhaps dictated, by the schedules of his older siblings, and he handles it beautifully, provided he can remain close to me.

Now as I look at this picture, I take a deep breath of gratitude and amazement. This beautiful little person is with us this Christmas. As I contrast this to last year, I can't help but feel so humbled.

*****

I was pregnant with Elijah, only 16 weeks along. In the days right before Christmas, life was going on normally -- the kids and I were baking and decorating and getting very excited. I noticed I was getting a bit winded by everyday activities, but I chalked it up to my being pregnant and took it as a sign to rest more. It was a nice excuse to sit on the couch and read some Christmasy books to the kids, or simply drink my tea and watch them play.

The day before Christmas Eve, I noticed I wasn't simply getting winded; my lungs hurt. That struck me as odd. But I still tried to explain it away: maybe I had been too busy. I just needed a bit more rest, I thought.

On Christmas Eve, we decorated our tree but I sat on the couch the whole time. I was experiencing pain just by inhaling. I had to intentionally breathe in a shallow fashion, otherwise my lungs felt excruciating. After we finished decorating the tree, Patrick went back to his office to do a little more work before taking some time off for the holidays. I had intended to put out sugar cookies for the kids and I to ice and decorate but my breathing was now so laboured that it seemed insurmountable.

I went up to Patrick and told him "this isn't normal. It shouldn't hurt this much to breathe." We paged my midwife who told me to get to the ER immediately. So I, rather stupidly, drove myself to the hospital, and because I forgot cash for the parking lot, had to park in the elementary school next door. The mere walk from the parking lot into the ER left me in terrible pain.

After a check from the on-call doctor, they decided that whatever the problem was with me was out of the scope of our small local hospital. The words "blood clot" and "lungs" were suggested quietly. I would have to travel an hour away for an echocardiogram and an ultrasound on my heart. As well as the baby.

"Oh God, my baby! Protect this little baby," I prayed.

I climbed back into my van with my little womb-dweller softly kicking me. Tears were streaming down my face. I knew I could be facing a very serious health problem. My health, that of my unborn child's health, could be at risk. Yet my mind raced to the presents I hadn't wrapped yet, the cookies I had promised to decorate with my children... oh, the children! I couldn't possibly spend Christmas Eve away from them! This was ruining Christmas!

I got home and Patrick and I readied to head to the Pembroke Hospital. Our kind friends agreed to babysit the kids while we went, but I wanted to take Anna because I felt nervous having someone else attempt to put her to bed.

We arrived and they performed a battery of tests on me. They were able to rule out the most terrifying possibilities, thanks be to God, but still had no explanation why I was in such pain from breathing. After being there for several hours, the doctor ordered me bedrest and sent me home. Before doing so, though, he kindly offered me an ultrasound of the baby "as a Christmas gift of reassurance."

There was our little one, seeming to stretch his arm as though to wave at us. The doctor pointed it out and said "I think your baby wants to say 'don't worry, Mommy! I'm here and I am happy!'" 

{I was so touched by the excellent attentive care that doctor gave us. I still regret not writing a note or card to him after the fact for his kindness. I mean, I leave a tip for a restaurant server, but I never acknowledged the doctor who stayed at my bedside and assuaged my worries when I thought the very worst things could be happening to me?}

So home we went. It was 11 PM. We got the boys from our friend's house, and we all went to bed. No Midnight Mass for our family. No Mass on Christmas Day, either. 

Touchingly, though, the associate pastor of our parish heard of my hospital visit and came on Christmas Day with a small gift for the children, and to give me Holy Communion. My 'bed rest' had taken me to the couch where I could watch the kids open their presents, so he brought the Eucharist to me in my living room, right in the midst of crumpled wrapping papers, pine needles scattered everywhere and me in my pj's and housecoat.

Despite everything being upturned, it was Christmas. 

It was Christmas when our friends offered to take care of our children when Patrick had to take me to the hospital. It was Christmas when my dear husband stayed up for hours after coming home with me to make sure the gifts were wrapped. It was Christmas when another friend brought us a turkey dinner the next day, so I didn't have to cook, and Patrick could take the day to take care of me and the children.

It was Christmas when the kindly elderly priest from our church brought Christ to me, right in the mess of my living room. 

And now this year, I hold that baby so much more tightly, remembering the fear and anguish we all felt last Christmas. It's impossible not to feel so, so grateful, knowing what could have been and how well we all are now.

Merry Christmas, everyone.