Most of you already know that my new son was born on Tuesday, December 21st at 4:11 p.m. He weighted 8 pounds and 3 ounces. I started working on this post shortly after his birth while we were still working on picking his name. At the time, we were calling him "Bear", a nickname that the nurses thought fitting given his barrel chest and ability to hold his head up.
We ended up Naming him Isaac Finley. The middle name is after my grandfather (or me if I am feeling particularly self-focused). His first name has a story.
About year ago, Erica came to me and told me she wanted to try again. By this time we had already lost 4, and I had given up. We were done with our foster care training and I was focused on that. Nevertheless, I told her I'd pray about it. I was prepared to take the next step, which was to contact the specialist and have them do bloodwork. I figured the diagnosis would reveal that having a child would be difficult and expensive, and we could move on.
While we were waiting on the results one of Erica's friends had a prophecy. I should preface this by saying that this doesn't happen very often to us or her friend. She said God told her that we would have a son within a year. Sound familiar?
When God sent his angels to tell Abraham he was going to have a son, he had already given up as well. In fact, rather than rejoicing, he said "If only Ishmael might live under your blessing". Translation: I've already got this figured out, and my way sounds much better. My response to the prophesy was similar. I wrote it off as bad pizza and was secretly upset when Erica believed it.
When the doctor called with the results, Erica and I interpreted his findings differently. Erica: "Great news, I have a treatment plan that will work for you!" Me: "This is going to be expensive, painful, and obviously not the right thing to do." I was surprised that Erica was ready to try again. I felt like I was swimming upstream. I convinced her to wait a week and make our decision when we got back from our working vacation in Evanston, IL.
On our second day in Evanston, we found out Erica was pregnant. The news was terrifying. The Doctor said we had a 30% chance of success, and finding out of state treatment was harrowing. My mother's response wasn't helpful: "You do know where baby's come from right?"
The real work began when we returned. Erica had to get IV infusions Every two to three weeks. Insurance wouldn't cover it, the costs were staggering, and that wasn't the worst part. Each night I pleaded with God to keep our baby alive; terrified this would be our fifth miscarriage.
After a few months Erica didn't need the infusions anymore, and fear gave way to hope. Finally, on December 21st at 4:11pm, God fulfilled his blessing.
In my next post, the delivery.
