mary van milligen

Long before the scandalous nipplegate malfunction in 2003 and her secret marriage announcement in 2013, Janet Jackson once confidently declared her independence when she sang the lyrics “Control-to get what I want. Control-I’m never gonna stop.  Control-Now I’m all grown up” in 1986.  Like most middle school, pre-pubescent girls during this era, I saluted Janet, Miss Jackson if you’re nasty, for these rebellious and coming of age comments.  I longed for the day that I would break free from my small town existence and retreat from a chaotic home of shared bathroom time with several siblings.   So, I danced in my room, grabbed my Conair professional hairbrush for its obvious microphone substitute qualities, and intensely sang “Jam, woo woo…Rebel, that’s right. I’m on my own. I’ll call my own shots.  Thank you.”

Time flew. I learned to do what Janet claimed and “make my own decisions”. I gloriously welcomed her self-governing assertiveness.  But life lurched forward, and I unfortunately failed to recognize when my need for control crossed a line and no longer reflected this liberating anthem.

Between raising my family and fulfilling my teaching expectations, I sometimes overthink every minute of the day, and I constantly walk on a tightrope of responsibilities and obligations. I feel that if I slip and forget all I’ve learned to balance my life that I’ll fall with no one to catch me.  I allow unrealistic standards to steer my car, and if I don’t take over, I’ll crash. I have to be the boss.  The one to maintain all of the order, but life feels burdensome when this happens.

So, I stop and remind myself that I don’t always need to be an expert and recognize that even the trained professionals never walk the rope without a safety net. I remind myself to unpack my oppressive suitcase of irrational worries and ridiculous anxiety.

It’s fine to Spiral. To Relinquish. To Abandon. To Relax. To Ignore, a common foe of several of us. The untrusting friend named Control.

My main character, Hope, struggles to do this in my novel.  Her anxiety and fear don’t allow her to open her heart in a way that she deserves.  I’m sharing the second chapter and a little bit of the third chapter of her journey with you.  In the third chapter, we find that Hope has been given a special a gift, a gift that forces her to have the need for control.

Chapter 2

Once more people discovered the dreadful pregnancy news, some friends shockingly asked why the doctors didn’t just take the baby or why she didn’t just terminate the pregnancy. For brief moments, she contemplated this idea, but it went against everything she knew and believed, and ultimately, she decided to truly give the pregnancy over to God.  She invited a local priest into her home, and he gave her simple advice.

It was a hot, breezy June day; the priest’s name was Father Dan.   He possessed a slender frame, black-rimmed glasses, a receding hair line of brown hair, a strong face with hazel eyes that projected kindness, and an aura that reminded my mom of Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey from one of her favorite films, It’s a Wonderful Life. He entered our brick, Georgian style home with nothing but his black suit, white collar, and a light blue rosary.

“Hello” he softly uttered.

“Hello” my mother reciprocated.

My father interrupted “Please, why don’t we take a seat in the living room where it is more comfortable. Would you like anything to drink?”

“No. I’m fine. Thank you” he replied.

As the small group walked towards the living room, my older sister followed gleefully.  Father Dan turned around and energetically asked, “Well, who is this?”

“This is Allie” replied Mom.

“Well, look at you with your pretty, curly hair” he affectionately stated, and then he took a seat in the green pin-striped chair in the corner of the living room.

Allie chuckled, waved at Father Dan, and ran away as soon as she heard the movie Cinderella blaring from the family room. We both enjoyed this Disney classic as kids and often wondered why Cinderella didn’t take the time to make Gus and Jack a pair of pants.

My mother sat reserved, tired, and hopeless. She wanted the priest to give her guidance, and she also wanted him to keep her in his prayers because her mental stability at this point fluctuated. A GPS couldn’t even find my mother’s lost laugh. Right after my father finished explaining the news from the multiple doctors, Father Dan simply said “doctors are convoluted”.    He looked directly at my mother and said, “The creation of life can never truly be documented in a medical manner.  As much as doctors progress in the study of fertility, they will never have all of the answers.” He pointed to her growing belly and said “they don’t really know what’s going on in there any more than they know what’s going on up there.”

“But…” my mother interrupted. He didn’t allow her a chance to continue. He quickly spoke over her and said, “As a priest, I have seen it all. I have witnessed medical error.  I have witnessed the human spirit work with the holy spirit. We are not praying today for the two of you to cope with this awful, impending death news.  We are simply praying for life. ”

And just like that, my mother’s body felt a surge of warmth from head to toe. She allowed positivity for one second lead the anguish tango but then the logic overwhelmed her again.

She put the priest on the witness stand and berated him with questions.  “With all due respect, Father Dan, how do you know?  How do you deny what medical experts are telling me?  How do you dismiss it all with such certainty? Not one, but two…two different specialists, including my own OBGYN aren’t showing any ounce of possibility”.

He insisted, “How do you so agreeably accept that they are right?” and stoically stared at her.

“I ignored the first doctor, but when the second doctor agreed and saw more problems. How could I not?”

“Is she alive?”

“What?”

“Is she alive right now?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I feel her. She moves.”

“What else do you feel?”

“What?”

“Do you really feel that she’s going to die?”

“I don’t know.”

“Say the answer that you feel. Right now. Do you feel like you’re going to lose her.”

My mother didn’t respond.

“I see” He sighed.

He continued to stare at her. And then he interjected, “what path do you want to focus on? I think this path you’ve been living on has several twists and turns. You can’t follow these directions. This particular route isn’t good for you or your baby.  Invite Him in”.

And then there was even longer silence. My mother avoided and him and stared out the window. He cleared his throat to snap her attention towards him.  Once she made eye contact, he rubbed his brow, took off his glasses, and grinned.

“How do I know with such certainty you ask? I know because God is the one omniscient truth I’ve discovered in this world, so let’s rely on Him to provide our answers. God hears us.  God wants us to want him. Faith, quite simply, is a profession.  We work at it, get insurance from it, question it, and develop skills with it.  You have been handed many tasks throughout this profession, and now that you’ve been handed one of the largest projects in your life….. you want to run away from the job?  You were hired as a child.  This almighty power has never handed anyone a pink slip. He or she through his or her own volition quits.

“I’m not a quitter. I don’t think I’m built for this” she retorted.

“You’ve allowed anxiety to paralyze you.” He then spoke softly and questioned “Why is it so hard for us to give our burdens to Him?  He begs for them.  He bleeds for them.”

My mother felt guilty and terrible for questioning, but she was scared. She then felt somewhat humbled and said, “I’m listening.”

He smirked. He read the expression on my mother’s face and saw that she wasn’t truly buying his comments, and when he felt her discomfort, he asserted “Nope.  No, I’m not sure you are or that you want to.  I am lucky that in my profession I get to constantly witness amazing sights. I am present.  I literally get to work for Him and through Him.  And every single day when I see my parishioners or people just like you struggle with their walk with God, I get frustrated.  It’s right in front of us every day.  We see what we want to see, and I implore you to just let yourself see. You say that you think you are not completely built for this. I say you are wrong.  Clearly, you have been built for this. Every event in your life–every decision, challenge, triumph, every disaster has been designed to bring you to and through this moment..  Trust in God’s sovereignty…and trust in his judgment.  Our Heavenly Father would not have given you this child if he didn’t know you.” He then referenced Proverbs 3:5-6 “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.”

She nodded her head yes.

He then continued “Accept this job. Clock in. Let yourself look. If you open this door, He will invite you in, but you have to step in off the welcome mat.”

He said a few prayers with my parents, called for Allie to come back to the room and leaned down to Allie’s level and kindly requested “you keep giving your Mommy and Daddy lots of kisses.” He gave the sign of the cross when he got to the front door and then he was gone. The visit was brief.  The priest overwhelmed my parents with his confident composure that everything was going to be fine.  And my parents finally started to feel a small sense of peace and optimism. They chose to RSVP to His invitation for a party of four. Mom, Dad, Allie, and me.

Two days after the fatherly chat, my mother finally confided her never-ending concerns with her own sister, and her sister told her about a saint named St. Gianna. St. Gianna became incredibly ill while she was pregnant, and she ultimately gave her life for the life of her child. Born in 1922 and died in 1962, St. Gianna left a significant impression on hundreds of thousands of people.  Gianna was diagnosed with cancer during her fourth pregnancy and refused treatment in order to ensure the health of her baby.  Gianna constantly gave to others and truly believed in the importance and the value of all human life.  When researching the story of St. Gianna’s life, there were two phrases in particular that Mom clung to with desperation and hope: “Each and every day presents us with choices that have the power to prepare us to take heroic action whenever it will be called for. We can do that, however, only if we surrender ourselves and what we desire to God and His will for us” and the other “One cannot love without suffering or suffer without loving”.  These beautiful words became my mother’s motto. Invite love in, it’s worth the loss.

My mother also read several documented cases of people that felt St. Gianna interceded with them in their wants and needs of the Lord.

One particular evening, my mother believes she became one of the documented stories. And although I love to make fun of my mother every other day for my own amusement, I’ll never her mock her for this. I think it created a rare treasure for me.  One that has owned me and directed me.

As she slept, she had the ever-so cliché moment of being stirred awake in her sleep, and she felt that some kind of presence was watching her from above her bed.  Then, an effervescent surge of warmth tingled over her entire stomach.  It tickled and saturated her abdomen for about two minutes. She was between consciousness and unconsciousness for some of the time, but she does recall reaching her hand out ever so gently into the dark room towards the ceiling and softly uttering the words, “St. Gianna”.

A few days after this strange yet serene evening, my mother returned to her regular obstetrician.  The purpose of this appointment was simple:  the doctor wanted to see if my heart was still beating.  In other words, if I was dead…a goner…that my ship had sailed….  And when she looked at the screen of black and white distorted images, she quickly saw the lemon sized image pulsating and observed that the amniotic fluid had increased and that I continued to grow.  I was still alive. Go me.

A few more weeks went by, and my mother had to visit another specialist. She became increasingly more anxious as the day of the appointment approached.  Her heart was frozen by fear, and her legs, as she entered the doctor’s office door, became increasingly weak and numb.  The recent hope that had carried her these last few weeks seemed to depart her as she approached the examination table.  She wanted to believe that God had healed me, but she was also fiercely defending herself against the painful possibility of never knowing me.

She remembers almost every detail with such clarity. I’ve heard the story so often that I feel like I was there; well, I was technically there, but I mean, really there.  The sterile room in which she entered had every gestational chart and image plastered on all sides, although it was difficult to clearly see each due to the darkness of the room for the ultrasound machines. She barely breathed and prayed to herself as the doctor, a 50 something woman, known as Dr. Fitz, walked into the room.  She had L’Oreal commercial colored red hair, dark rimmed, chic glasses that rested towards the end of her nose and her voice sounded like she had spent her evening screaming at the latest rock concert. Her approach and attitude was that of a straight-shooter, a character trait my mother always adored.  Dr. Fritz did the obligatory exchange of “how are you doing today?” and “ how’s the weather outside?” questions, and then this sassy woman assertively grabbed the ultrasound wand, squirted cold jelly upon my mother’s abdomen and began to examine  my latest close up moment.  Then, my mother’s world halted.  She exhaled.  She heard Dr. Fritz deliver the news.

“Well” Dr. Fitz began to explain.  “The brain is developing fine, and I do not see signs for Trisomy 13.”   “Other than being small, this baby looks great.”  She did not see signs for my mother to give up on me and my life.  At this point, the doctor only saw that I was small for my gestational age, that I was IUGR which stands for Intra-Uterine Growth Restriction.  She advised us to come back to do another growth scan, and my parents were prepared to follow orders.  But my mother never went back for that appointment.  About two weeks later, my mother was hospitalized due to hypertension. My mother’s anxiety and stress toyed with her blood pressure.

The pregnancy continued, but this new diagnosis put my mother and me at risk.

After weeks of bed rest in the hospital and at home, my parents met me at 33 weeks gestation, and I was born emergency c-section. Most babies born around this stage weigh around 4lbs.; I entered the world at a whopping 2 lbs. and 5 oz. and a staggering 14 inches.  My parents named me Hope Gianna. And when my mother shares my story, she effusively smiles and jokes “most of her weight was in her head.”  I always hate when she says that.  From this point, I stayed in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for six and a half weeks, and then I came home.

Chapter 3

For the next two years, my parents watched my every move and motion like an NFL analyst closely dissecting a play, tracing my moves, and they were time and time again reassured by my performances and skills.  I was quickly observant of small details, and slowly, my physical strength and development hit each milestone.  And by the way, I most definitely grew into my big, Irish head.  I grew up to be 5’8”, and my mom referred to me as her “brown haired and brown eyed beauty”.

There’s mostly no evidence of the unusual, twisted route I took to get here. It never appeared physically or mentally.  It presented itself spiritually, more like…intuitively.

To this day, my mother often thinks of her St. Gianna night. She reached out to this friend in heaven, and this friend prayed for and with her, and the Lord answered her prayers. She thinks of the miracle, but she also believes that something else happened that night, something that has significantly altered my life in several instances.  This is the night that she feels my microscopically rare gift was born.  The night she believes God gave me the gift of foresight.  She thought about Father Dan and his speech about people not allowing themselves to truly see His work.  And now, I could see.  I could see more than 20/20.

Unfortunately for me, it’s a small intricately wrapped gift with large responsibility.  It’s not the type of foresight that allows me to predict what next year’s lottery numbers will be.  I can see the future…two minutes into the future.  This gift doesn’t appear all the time; it shows itself most often in emotionally poignant times.  My mother cleverly named it the glimpse gift. It allows me to see the next two minutes in about 30 seconds with ridiculous accuracy.