A LITTLE CIRCLE

Dear Spike:

Your mom and I thought there might be something wrong this week. She wasn’t feeling well and was having some other problems, the nature of which led us to believe you might not be well, either.

So as Dr. Stewart held the tiny probe over your mom’s stomach, sweeping it back and forth through a mess of blue goo, I stood breathless and listened for the sound of your heartbeat to come over the small receiver the doctor held in her other hand.

The speaker hummed and crackled. At times it sounded like an old transistor radio I had when I was very young, with which I would sometimes tune into baseball games and music shows, mostly late at night when I could not sleep.

We could hear your mom’s heart. And some gurgling sounds coming from her stomach.

But alas, the rapid drumming we were told to expect from you was not there.

Dr. Stewart told us it might take a while — your heart is so very tiny, after all — but as she moved the machine back and forth and back and forth, the expression on her face turned from interest, to determination, to concern. And finally, she gave up.

“Go over into the next room and I’ll be right there,” she said.

Your mom changed back into her clothes, I picked up her shoes and we moved to a small room, across the hall, with an ultrasound machine. And there we waited.

Maybe it was 10 minutes, but it seemed like hours.

“Is everything OK?” your mother asked me.

“Sure,” I said. “Everything is fine.”

Not that I knew that. And not that I felt it. I was scared. For you and for your mother. And for me.

I’ve never wanted something so badly as I want you. And so this week has been very difficult. I’ve fallen in love with you. Your mom has, too. I couldn’t fathom letting you go. Yet I knew that it was a possibility. And as we sat quietly in the ultrasound room, that possibility seemed so real.

Dr. Stewart walked into the room and flipped on the machine. She began to search for you again. And again, she was having trouble. The screen was a mess of gray and white and black splotches. The doctor could pick out features in it — your mom’s hip bones, her bladder — but she couldn’t find you.

I don’t pray in times of concern. I figure that, since I don’t spend much time talking to God when things are going well, it’s a bit disingenuous to do so when things are not. So I simply took a deep breath and, behind my back, crossed my fingers.

A few moments later, a small black splotch appeared on the screen. And then, briefly, an even smaller white line.

“Where you see bright white, that’s bone,” Dr. Stewart said.

The tiny white line, she said, was your jawbone. Other than a few tests, it was the first real evidence we had that you were really in there. My eyes watered over. A little white line. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

The feeling only lasted a moment or two. As quick as the line had appeared on the screen, it disappeared. We still hadn’t seen your heart.

The doctor kept searching. I could hear my own heart beating. And I could see you mother’s pulse quicken in the veins on her neck. I stared at the screen. I didn’t blink.

And then it appeared. I knew even before the doctor said so. Just a little circle, fluttering in a swirling cloud of gray and white. The new most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and leaned over to kiss your mother on the forehead. I’d not seen her smile so big and bright since our wedding day.

I uncrossed my fingers and closed my eyes — just for a moment. “Thank you,” I whispered and opened my eyes to see the doctor point out your head, your chest and your arms on the screen. You did a few somersaults and wiggled your body. And then you disappeared into the swirling clouds again.

I couldn’t stop smiling that night. Neither could your mom. We feared we had lost you. And then we found you.

And even though I hasn’t asked, someone, somewhere has blessed us.

Thank God.

Love,
dad