Ashi & Rami

 

Back in August, when we first found out that we were expecting a third baby, I went to one of those very very early checkups.  The ultrasound in those early weeks shows a little white dot (the baby) and a little flash (the heartbeat.) 
Every time I had had one of those early ultrasounds in the past, it was so exciting - the confirmation that nothing had changed except this millimeters-long bundle of cells that suddenly, miraculously, had a life of its own, both independent of me and completely dependent on me. 
And that that little flashing bundle meant that, before I knew it, everything would change once again.

I settled down in the chair, excited for the rush of seeing the flash-flash-flash on the screen.  The ultrasound began. 
I waited for the plane of view to land on the little embryo. 

Moments passed.  We saw a sac.  

Moments more passed.  Nothing showed up in the sac. 

After a minute or two, the technician put a hand on my shoulder.  She said, "I'm sorry, ma'am.  It looks like there's no baby." 

An empty sac.  A pregnancy with no baby.  Hopes risen up and then dashed.  A mention of speaking with the doctor about removing the sac, the failed pregnancy, so we could start again.  A follow-up appointment next week.

Over the next few days, I did what any reasonable person would do - I scoured the internet.  I read story after story of families with the same situation.  Most of them ended sadly - there really was no baby.  But every so often it turned out that the diagnosis had been wrong, and there was indeed a growing, healthy baby that somehow doctor or ultrasound had missed. 
That week, I made God a promise - if we found out there was indeed a baby there, that my case had somehow been misdiagnosed, I would give the baby a name that told the story of the wonders God can perform.

A tear-filled week later, I was back in the ultrasound room, for a final confirmation that there was no baby.   I didn't want to go. I didn't want to see the same devastating blankness on the screen.  I didn't want to be reminded, in real time, that I had become attached to nothing.

I settled down again.  Waited for the image to show on the screen. 
Saw the sac. 
Prepared, again, to see nothing. 
Steeled myself. 

Heard the technician say, "....and there's the baby."  

I started to hyperventilate.  

WHAT?!?!?  The BABY!?!?! But there is no baby!  

"Why couldn't we see it last week?"  I managed to sputter.  "I don't know...." the tech said...."you should have been able to...."

Today, thank God, we have a beautiful, healthy baby girl named Nesyah, which means "miracle of God."  Her nickname, "Nesi," can be translated, "my miracle" - her very existence is my own personal reminder of the very real presence of miracles in our everyday lives.

Jewish tradition is that every person's name should have a story.  Names, from the Bible through to today, not only tell the story of where we come from, but guide us towards what we will become.  A name is a blessing - an articulation of the hopes and dreams that our parents have for us that give us the inspiration and strength to be better people. 

Our blessing for Nesyah is that her name will remind her that miracles are possible, miracles are everywhere, and that her role in this world is to prove that by being a blessing to others.