Several years after my husband and I were married, we were looking forward to having a family. When we were expecting our first child, the baby arrived nearly four months early and did not survive. Unfortunately, the next two pregnancies terminated the same way. After the third delivery, the obstetrician noticed that the muscle that supports the baby’s body weight was torn. He told me that a doctor from India had devised a surgery five years earlier to help remedy this problem. I proceeded to investigate this possibility and met with a young mother who had had this operation. Each pregnancy entailed two surgeries and a Caesarean delivery as well as complete bed rest with no activity. I also learned that the success rate was only 45 percent. I knew this was not for me.
In addition, I was grieving over the loss of these little ones, wondering if they were being loved and cared for. I was down in the dumps emotionally and would sometimes cry. My husband called the attending physician who cared for me and told him of my sadness. He replied that if it continued, I would have to see a psychiatrist. I thought the doctor would have acknowledged what I had endured over the last several years, but that was not the case. Although despondent, I knew I was not mentally ill.
I was starting to question if there was a God. One day when my husband left for work, I sat down to review what I recalled from going to a Christian Science Sunday School. How joyous it was to be reminded of God’s tender love for me.
