Facing fears with hope and truth

Being the mother of a child with a diagnosis is an emotional roller coaster that quickly makes you realize that you need Jesus. Many days are filled with frustrations that test the selfishness of the heart and feelings of inadequacy that can leave you feeling helpless.

I have “failed the test” of showing patience to Malachi many times as communicating with him becomes more and more difficult and his poor toddler self is even more frustrated than I. I have apologized to my son over and over again hoping and praying that my moments of weakness do not communicate a dissatisfaction with who he is or how well he is trying. My tank is often empty, and I so desperately need Jesus to meet me in every moment. I can only imagine that being the parent of a toddler resembles the relationship between God and Israel.

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When my husband, Drew, and I began to discuss having another baby, this reality of my day to day created a fear that I would not be able to love a new baby and give Malachi the attention he needs. On top of that, I had to battle the fear that we could have another diagnosis arise with a second child as Malachi’s diagnosis is technically genetic. Hemangiomas are often expressed externally as “strawberry” birthmarks or a cluster of blood vessels on or beneath the skin. Malachi’s was a cavernous hemangioma, meaning it was internal and happened to be in his brain.

I did not want the fear of what could happen to stop us from continuing to grow our family, and I knew that the idea that a diagnosis somehow diminishes worth is simply not the truth and absolutely not how I feel. Malachi is the biggest blessing of my life, and I wouldn’t have him any other way. Fear began to create lies that crippled me and made me forget how God has carried us through, time and time again.

Despite all of these fears, I was the one who said “I’m ready” first. The season felt right for us as a family, and even though I was battling fear, I felt the Lord was pushing us towards growth. When Drew shared that he had the same feelings, it was confirmation that my fears were not healthy, but in fact a hindering force.

When we found out we were pregnant, I did not react the way I thought I would. I was all of a sudden “NOT READY.”

I literally told Drew from the carport, “Well, we are pregnant and I need a minute.” While I imagined Drew was smiling ear to ear and dancing outside, I was inside the house mentally processing the information and almost in tears. It didn’t feel right anymore, and I couldn’t explain why the sudden shift in emotions. I figured hormones were in the driver’s seat, but I was still very upset that I wasn’t as elated as Drew.

After a few more weeks of getting my head around what was happening, we decided to tell our family. Celebrating this new life and Malachi’s second birthday immediately helped me feel joy with the pregnancy and excitement for what was to come. But then the following week, things changed.

As I was trying to get my picky eater to take a bite of his PB&J, I began feeling blood rush down my legs. I immediately ran to the bathroom and started crying. I had no clue what was happening, but in the moment, I was confident that this was the end of this precious life. I started to mourn the loss of my baby and started to try to regain composure so I could continue getting Malachi to eat his sandwich.

I called my mom in tears and asked her to come over. She asked if I called my OB, and I said that it didn’t even cross my mind. It really didn’t. In my mind I was sure of what was happening and that my baby wouldn’t be able to survive. Calling the doctor to have them tell me what I was afraid of was not what I wanted. But, thankfully, God gave me a nurse as a mother. She managed to convince me that the people who, you know, went to medical school to be obstetricians, would actually be able to help me. Clearly my mind was not in a good place.

The nurse on the phone instructed me to go to the ER to get an ultrasound as well as a rhogam shot because I am Rh negative. While we were in triage, the doctor and nurse had me take a pregnancy test as protocol. They came back saying, “Congratulations! It’s positive.”

I was so mad.

How could they be so insensitive when I had just lost my baby? But then, after an ultrasound, the next nurse confirmed the same thing.

I was instantly confused. Over the course of hours, if felt like no one was being clear with me. I was getting a rhogam shot while being told there is a baby in me. I had been bleeding heavily for hours, yet I was being congratulated.

Finally a technician came in and I asked her plainly, “Is my baby alive and ok?” She said yes and explained that I had a subchorionic hematoma, a blood clot on the womb, and that when the placenta attached, it had ruptured some of the hematoma.

I wish I could say I was immediately relieved to know the baby was ok, but I wasn’t. The fear of a diagnosis, the fear of a difficult pregnancy, and lots and lots of hormones made me wish it was a miscarriage for the sake of avoiding uncertainty. I cried and told Drew how I felt, and he reminded me of how God — who had carried us through hardship and victory before — was with us again as He always is.

Later that week, our church was having a night to pray for people in need of healing. I went, feeling so aware that I needed Jesus in every nook and cranny of my life.

I was overwhelmed and very aware that I was not enough. My stubborn self did not want to ‘appear’ broken so I tried to hold in the tears as long as possible.

I felt “put together” when I went to receive prayer, but as I began to share about the hematoma, I lost it. I broke down with the pain of feeling like my children suffer and the fear that I would get attached to this baby only to lose him.

The fact that I was once again in a situation where I didn’t know if my child would live or die was just too much.

As the couple began to pray for me, they shared something that would change my whole perspective. They shared the sense that God was reminding us that this baby is His and He has them.

Those words shook me. My baby is a gift, whether I get the privilege of watching him grow or simply the gift of carrying him in the womb. He is a miracle already.

God had spoken the word to me earlier in the year that “He had me,” and now He reminded me that those words apply to my son as well. Oh how easily we forget when we are surrounded by unknowns and what we perceive as chaos.

This pregnancy has been hard. I had another miscarriage scare at 17 weeks that revealed that the hematoma has grown. Miraculously, the hematoma is as far away from the placenta as it can be, which is the safest place for Joel’s sake.

I am 26 weeks and the blood clot has me on pelvic rest that says I shouldn’t be carrying my 30lb toddler with gross motor delays. I have had more low points with this pregnancy than I did with Malachi, and I have had to battle depression at times. But one thing I know is that Joel Asa Mapleswright is God’s first and that we are both carried by Him through it.

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“Even the sparrow finds a home, and a swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, at your altars, oh Lord of hosts, my King and my God.”
Psalm 84:3

About the Author

Bethany Mapleswright lives in Marietta, Georgia with her husband Drew and her son Malachi. When Malachi was four months old he had a stroke overnight in the form of a ruptured cavernous hemangioma, causing him to have developmental delays in speech and left-sided fine and gross motor delays. She and her husband are expecting their second son, Joel, at the end of November 2019.