Waiting. For Life or for Death.

Blood.

There was blood.

Not a lot of it, but it was still blood.

I watched it drip into the toilet water and sink to the bottom, resting against the cold, white ceramic bowl.

I stared at it.

Waiting.

Watching.

Holding my breath.

As if at any moment, the rest of my insides might come pouring out, turning the clear water to a pool of dark red.

Each drip represented precious time spent on the couch over the past month.  My child’s life source, that my body had worked so hard to create, just spilling out, being wasted.

I wanted to run.  But where to?

Instead I crawled into bed.  I laid there like a statue, as if remaining still would somehow make this all go away.

I thanked the Holy Spirit for being with me and I asked the Father to please protect my child.  He knew how much I wanted this child.  How it was in my heart to care for it as long as I lived.

I took a drink of water.

No one close to me had ever died before.  I wondered if my first real brush with death would be that of my own child.  Wondered what it would feel like when someone inside of you dies.  Wondered if I’d actually see my own child, the size of a peach now, plop into the toilet water and sink to the bottom with the rest of the blood.

I shook my head as if shaking these thoughts away, rolled over and started looking at happy pictures on Instagram.

For the moment, I had a healthy baby inside of me.  I’d felt it kick just an hour ago.  That was a good sign.

But the doctors couldn’t tell me anything.  “It could go either way,” they said.

In that moment, there reality of God sunk in in a new way.  In moments of life or death, He is the only one who has the final say.  He is the only one worth talking to.  The only one with any real control or power.

I took a Benadryl and some ibuprofen hoping to secure a good night’s sleep.

Then I waited.  Because waiting is the only thing you can do.