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TITLE: Wonderfully Made | Previous Challenge Entry
By Aaron Menchaca
07/30/23
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For you created my inmost being;  you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;  your works are wonderful,  I know that full well.

Psalms 139:13,14 (NIV)

The overhead lights in the room were dim and the computer monitor screens were bright, standing out like the signs in Times Square. But unlike the gaudy commercialism of those giants signs in New York, these small screens seemed sacred.

They were displaying rows of ever-changing numbers, which showed the vital signs and other health markers of the unborn baby inside of Julie, who was laying on her back on the examination bed, in the sonography room at her OB-GYN. The ultrasound tech was busy moving a wand over the smooth skin of her bulging abdomen, now slippery with clear gel. Every few seconds she would move the wand an inch or two, and then type a few keys on a computer keyboard. Julie watched the screen that was highest of all, the one that showed the grainy, pulsing, black and white image of the baby, who looked to her like a small galaxy in the middle of a constellation. She looked over at her husband, Phillip, who sat to her right and quietly watched the screen, with his hands clasped together and his shoulders slumped. The power of the image on the screen had them both excited and shaken up, at the same time.

A couple months later, they sat in a doctor’s office, behind a desk facing a stern-faced pediatrician. Every time they had a moment of consequence in this journey of their first baby, Julie made a mental note of the face of the doctor or nurse involved, for some reason. This man looked earnest but tired, a tired that looked like even a week off wouldn’t help. He looked as though every time he had to pass on bad news, it weighed a little on his body. And the results were in.

“Most likely, what we will see with your daughter is a case of Down syndrome. Your blood test shows that the levels are there”, he declared.

Julie held Phillip’s hand in hers, and at the doctor’s words, their hands turned a bit, together. Again, there was only silence between them, the moment again was too much. The doctor looked at both of their faces and continued,

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this. And I’m sorry, but a decision must be made. Whether or not you want to continue the pregnancy. By most accounts, we would call this an ‘unsuccessful pregnancy’, and there’s no shame in terminating the baby. To be very honest, you would be saving the child a life of frustration and yourselves a world of trouble.”

Julie watched his face while he spoke, and noticed that he didn’t catch himself calling it a “baby” and not a “fetus”, and didn’t realize he had described their lives with her little girl as “a world of trouble”. Her little girl.

A couple more months, and the tall oak trees outside the maternity wing of the hospital are shedding their leaves, dropping them like red and orange decorations onto a grey lawn. The wind is picking up out of the north, rushing those coming into the hospital through sliding double doors. But it’s spring inside.

Down the hallway, doors are open, some decorated with colorful wreaths with names affixed to them. New moms and dads unconsciously keep the doors open as much as possible, so proud of the baby, the sunshine of their lives. Some rooms have only a couple people in them, some are full of family and friends, holding balloons and placing potted plants by the bed. The conversations are quiet but excited. The moms are happy but tired.

And all the way down the hallway, in the last room on the left, Julie is holding her princess, her baby girl. Phillip is standing nearby, talking to his mom and dad, who have just made it in to see them. Grandma is talking to her son but keeps looking at the baby, eager to get her turn to hold her granddaughter.

But right now Julie has her, and there’s silence all around. Just quiet. Julie watches her tiny face, her eyes like upturned jewels, looking back up at her. Her soft brown hair is combed forward to elegantly frame her forehead, held in place by a slender pink headband.

Her name is Tiffany.

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