Seven years ago, something happened that still makes me wonder: what really did happen?
It was one of those “what the hell was that?” kind of a moment – mystical, terrifying yet somehow…awesome. Definitely a profound woo-woo. The kind of experience that rearranges your understanding of time.
It was Thanksgiving morning, and the house was humming. Crockpots were doing their slow dance as I had prepared a lot of the food the day before, and the brined turkey was in the shed smoking away. Family would be arriving soon – about 25 of them – and I was headed to the shower to get presentable.
I stepped out, slipped on a robe, and began the sacred ritual of makeup and hair. While I was doing my thing, something stopped me cold.
But first, a little backstory.
My daughter, Jill, and her husband, Lloyd, had just completed their second round of IVF. A home pregnancy test followed up with a quantitative HCG level confirmed it. While they hadn’t yet had their first ultrasound, they were floating on air. The appointment was scheduled for the following week. Hope was high.
Back to the bathroom.
As I stood in front of the mirror, I heard a voice. Loud and clear. Not a vague whisper. Not a “who’s talking?” moment. I distinctly heard Jill’s voice – clearly terrified – say, “Mom I’m bleeding.”
I froze. Jill wasn’t in the room. She was downstairs getting ready. But I turned around anyway, just to be sure.
What the hell was that?
I tried to shake it off. Put a big red X over the thought. Push it out of my mind. But you don’t just forget something like that. It clings.
I finished getting ready, dressed, and headed downstairs. Guests were arriving. Tables were tucked into every room. My husband, Tan, whose turkey carving skills deserve their own fan club, was slicing up the bird, and I was sneaking bites of the juicy smoked bits that practically begged to be sampled.
Then I heard it again.
“Mom, I’m bleeding.”
This time, it wasn’t in my head.
I turned to see Jill standing in the doorway, tears streaming down her face. The exact words I had heard less than an hour ago. The exact tone. It was like hitting replay.
Panic took over. Tan, an OB/GYN, took her into the hospital for an ultrasound. The rest of us tried to carry on with Thanksgiving dinner as best we could, but the silence was thick.
Reagan, their oldest, just 7 at the time, noticed her parents had disappeared and softly asked, “Where’s Mom and Dad?”
My daughter-in-law, thinking fast, said, “Oh, I think they just went out to get some Dt. Coke.” (Because nothing says Thanksgiving like a sudden, five-mile soda emergency run.)
And somehow, that was enough. Reagan accepted it. Never mind that the table was groaning with food and no one had ever left mid-meal for soda before.
We tried to enjoy the meal, but our minds were elsewhere. Why was it taking so long?
Finally, the door opened. Jill rushed past us to the basement. No eye contact. No words. Just a blur of heartbreak.
Tan just shook his head.
Later, when I found a moment alone with him, I clung to hope. “Maybe it’s too early,” I said. “They don’t even like to do IVF ultrasounds until the seventh week. She’s just 6 weeks today. There had to be a reason they don’t like to do them until 7 weeks.”
He looked at me, “You didn’t see what I saw. There was a lot of blood. I could make out a fetal pole, but no heartbeat. I’m sorry, I don’t see a viable pregnancy.”
I went downstairs and did what any mother would do. I cried with her. I tried to comfort her, but there were no words for that kind of pain. She just wanted to go home. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t mingle. So, they packed up and off they went.
The bleeding didn’t last long, and Jill and Lloyd clung to hope. So did I. Tan, ever the realist didn’t. “Lisa, if any patient came to me with that amount of bleeding, I’d give the pregnancy zero chance.”
But until that ultrasound said otherwise, this girl, this mother, this grandmother was holding on.
The morning of the appointment finally arrived. I knew what time it was scheduled for and watched the clock like it owed me answers. Two hours passed, diminishing any hope I was holding onto. Then my phone buzzed.
A message.
Not a call.
Not a good sign.
If Jill had good news, she’d want to say it. But a message? That had to mean their worst fears were confirmed.
I opened it.
It wasn’t a message.
It was a photo.
And when they say a pictures worth a thousand words, they’re wrong. That photo didn’t need words.
It was Jill and Lloyd holding up their ultrasound.
There was a heartbeat.
There was a baby.
Seven and a half months later, Grayson Charles joined our family.
Back to the voice. What exactly happened that day?
The only explanation I have is this: on the other side, where time isn’t linear, where past, present and future happens at the same time, I somehow stepped into that dimension. For a few seconds, I was part of it. I heard what was coming before it arrived.
The story couldn’t have had a better ending. But at the time, it was heartbreaking. And I kept thinking: how can something so earth-shattering also be so awesome? There are no words for that.
I’d of preferred a happier premonition. But I heard what I heard. And for whatever reason, that Thanksgiving will never be forgotten.
Funny thing, as I began to recall this story, I realized Thanksgiving is just around the corner.
I’m hoping to stay firmly in this realm this time.
Unless, of course, it’s wildly good news.
And now, a toast: To the mysteries we don’t understand,
To the voices that find us when we least expect,
To the mothers who hold hope like breath-
Even when science says otherwise.
To the miracle that arrived despite the odds.
And to Thanksgiving, the holiday that gave us turkey, Diet Coke cover stories and a glimpse of something divine.
Cheers to the woo-woo.
Cheers to the heartbeat.
And cheers to the divine whisper in all of us, reminding us we are not humans having a spiritual experience, but souls having a human one.
Cheers.
