“To the Ship!” Captain Hook bellowed as he leapt onto the stage with swashbuckling fervor! His sycophant Smee followed at his heals, making the audience howl with laughter. Hook pointed the way brandishing his heavy sword, leading his motley crew who were hunting the famous Peter Pan.
I watched the scene unfold with tears in my eyes. Hearing Hook’s rich baritone breaking into perfect song, tickled my senses throughout the play.
So many years had slipped by that I had to give myself a shake. I watched enthralled by my own son, as he whipped off his foppish hat revealing a dandy’s curls, while raising a single crafty eyebrow at the children in the front row. He captured his audience, leaning into the crowd with a devilish laugh. I was suckered with the rest of the crowd as Peter Pan swooped in to save the day.
Hook was so full of life. That awful doctor had said my baby wouldn’t survive my pregnancy. I was distracted from my child on stage, as I slipped back in time, becoming a spectator watching a painful memory…
“Emma, just accept the fact that you’re going to have another miscarriage. Thirteen weeks gestation is not a viable pregnancy. Besides you don’t really need anymore kids.” We sat there too stricken to say a word, as the doctor stalked out of the emergency room.
Feeling angry and desperate, my husband and I left for home where I eased into bed. Women from church shared my pain and injustice, coming to my aid. Some prayed with me as the pain stabbed me like a whetted knife. Sometimes cutting so deep that I prayed for the grave. The baby’s placenta was ripping away from my womb. The pain released me from its grip, long enough to seek a second opinion from a Christian doctor.
My first impression was how angelic Doc’s snow-white hair looked, and second, astonishment. When he took my hand in his I felt tangible compassion flowing from his to mine. “No matter what the outcome Emma, we will get through this pregnancy together.” At last, someone cared.
“Emma, do you believe in miracles?”
I nodded, tears choking off my response. Doc was an answer to our prayers. This man took the time to offer us hope enough to endure to the end of my pregnancy.
As time went on, I was hospitalized often, most times placed on the pre op surgery ward just in case I hemorrhaged.
I remember lying there flat for days, crying for my mother like a child. I prayed that Father would give me the strength to endure the pain. I missed my children and prayed that He would keep his hand upon them during our separation.
I had my hand held by Doc on more than one occasion as I screamed into the night. Doc never gave up and kept his word.
Many times I felt Father’s healing touch, and the pain subsided. By thirty-four weeks I knew that Father had blessed me beyond my prayers. Finally the day had come when our son was strong enough to be born.
Doc was there, my husband holding me as he had done during the pregnancy.
When James was delivered my doctor dried a tear with his shoulder. Placing my baby on my chest, the placenta was set in a basin. The nurse wept as well.
“Why are you both crying?” I was holding my baby in my arms.
Doc heaved a heavy sigh. “Emma, do you remember me asking you if you believed in miracles?”
“Of course I do.” Gazing at my perfect little son, I smiled. “Look at him.”
“Your baby weighs nearly nine pounds, and this,” Doc said, pointing at the scarred placenta, “couldn’t have fed a mouse. This will make the medical books, it’s a miracle that he’s alive.”
Bringing our son into the world was worth every agonizing second. Doc had given us a sliver of hope to hold onto, encouraging me where other doomsayers had failed me. I had felt Father with me every step of the way.
As I looked through wizened eyes into the present, I watched my son, now playing Hook’s alter ego, ‘Mr. Darling’. He was quite the actor, morphing from pirate to a lovable bumbling, English gentleman. My darling boy was melting hearts. James turned to wink at me taking a bow as the curtains closed together. I knew in that moment that I still believed in miracles.
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