Jeff waited in the hallway, watching the scurry of the medical professionals as they rushed me into the operating room. One of the doctors, dressed in scrubs, her latex gloves already on, approached him with an air of seriousness.
We had been told at the outset of our pregnancy that I had a serious medical condition with the pregnancy. I had started bleeding early on: repeatedly. Many times we had thought we had miscarried, only to find the baby still living. Unfortunately, though, this problem would not go away for us. In fact, I would need to remain on strict bedrest for the last trimester of pregnancy and there was absolutely no way that we could have a normal birth.
As we had sat months earlier in the doctor’s office, taking in and processing the grim reality, the doctor informed us that as the baby increased in size, I would certainly have increased hemorrhaging. I could expect that toward the end, one of those times would become a near-death experience. Without warning, I could hemorrhage and within 15 minutes both our son and I would die if we didn’t receive an immediate emergency cesarean. We listened to their advice and scheduled a very early c-section surgery—just barely long enough into the pregnancy that our son could breathe but would still need NICU assistance to survive. That was if we were “lucky.” If my hemorrhaging started sooner, it would all be in God’s hands.
We waited through those months, very carefully working together as a family to enable me not to walk anywhere. Joy changed diapers, Melody made meals, and our church supplied us with freezer dinners to last for months. We were blessed.
But that morning, it had begun. I woke up with more blood loss than I had ever experienced. I called our families, and they jumped into action—picking up kids, taking me to the hospital. We had still hoped that day for a planned surgery, hoped that the bleeding would slow enough to give our son a little more time to develop. But once at the hospital, settled, the major hemorrhage had begun. Within seconds I had lost half my blood. As the medical team wheeled me to the prepared surgical room, the peace of God filled my spirit and I gave my family to God, asking Him to care for them, no matter what happened.
Jeff waited in the hall, watching helplessly, listening to the doctor. For the first time, he got to hear the full gravity of the situation. If they didn’t operate within five minutes, we would both die. If they operated quickly, the drugs they would give me would kill our son. There was no way that his small, premature body could handle that many chemicals. There was no other way to save me.
The Lord Sees and Tests Us
Halley Faville lives with her husband and children in their mountain home in Oregon.