When I walked into that appointment, I believed we were there to learn more about Ethan’s gastroschisis.

We already knew that meant surgery after birth. We knew it would likely mean time in the NICU. I was preparing myself to learn how severe it was and what kind of road we would be traveling once Ethan was born so we could bring him home.

I thought we were there to plan for a difficult beginning.

Instead, everything changed.

The Maternal Fetal Medicine doctor began the ultrasound. At first it felt routine. But then he kept scanning. And scanning.

What should have taken only a few minutes stretched longer and longer.

The room grew quiet in a way that felt heavy. I could feel that something wasn’t right, but I didn’t yet understand what.

Eventually he leaned forward on the ultrasound machine. I can still see the look on his face a defeated look that immediately made my stomach drop.

Then he asked me a question I didn’t expect.

“Why do you think you’re here today?”

I answered honestly.

“To confirm the gastroschisis… and to see how severe it is.”

He paused for a moment and then said words that changed everything.

“Unfortunately, it appears to be much more than that.”

He explained that Ethan had a condition that was incompatible with life.

As he continued describing what he was seeing on the ultrasound, my mind struggled to keep up with the words. Ethan’s abdomen appeared to be essentially non-existent. His spine looked twisted in a way that suggested he was connected to the placenta. There were serious concerns about his organs, his abdomen, and whether his lower limbs would even function.

I remember trying to process everything he was saying while still holding onto the belief that there had to be some kind of hope.

So I asked the question that felt impossible to ask.

“What would his survival rate even be?”

He looked at me and said something I will never forget.

“Zero percent.”

He explained that most people in this situation choose to end the pregnancy. He also told me that in the state of Texas that wasn’t something I could pursue, but that there were other options available elsewhere if I chose that path.

The words kept coming, but it felt like time slowed down.

He told me he was very sorry. He told me to take my time before leaving that day. He said I didn’t need to schedule a follow-up appointment, but that if I was still pregnant I could call and come back.

He did say that in cases babies with conditions like this can live long enough to be born, but that it was incredibly difficult to predict and very unlikely.

Just minutes earlier, I thought I was walking into an appointment to understand what kind of challenges Ethan might face so we could fight to bring him home.

Instead, I was being told he wouldn’t be coming home at all.

I didn’t expect how quickly everything would change.

The words came fast. Too fast. A diagnosis that shifted every plan, every imagined future, every quiet hope I had been holding. In a matter of moments, I was told that our son’s life would not continue the way we had prayed for.

That Ethan would not make it.

Nothing prepares you for a sentence like that.

I had walked into that appointment alone, expecting to gather information we could talk through together later. Instead, I was leaving with news that felt impossible to carry by myself.

I remember walking back to the parking garage feeling completely disconnected from my body like I was watching myself from the outside.

The world kept moving around me. Cars pulled in and out. People walked to their appointments. Life continued like nothing had happened.

But my world had just stopped.

I sat in the car and called Ben.

I asked him if he wanted to talk about it now, before he boarded his flight home, or if he wanted to wait until we picked him up from the airport.

He didn’t hesitate.

He wanted to talk now.

So there I was, sitting in a parking structure, while Ben stood in the Milwaukee airport waiting to board a plane when I had to tell my husband that our son wasn’t going to make it.

We both just sat there. Crying. Processing. Trying to breathe through words that felt impossible to say out loud.

Eventually, I had to drive home. I had to figure out how to hold myself together enough to walk through the door.

My mom was in Texas watching Austin that day. When I got home, I tried to share the news with her while he was nearby, moving through the house like any other normal day.

Even at his young age, Austin is perceptive. He notices tears. He notices when something is wrong.

I felt the tension of trying to speak words that carried so much grief while also wanting to protect his little world from a pain he couldn’t possibly understand yet.

My mom and I cried together, processing the shock and sadness from a distance.

And then we did what grief so often asks us to do, we kept moving forward because there was no other option.

We gathered ourselves and prepared to go pick Ben up from the airport.

That drive to the airport felt heavy with anticipation. This would be the first time we would be together after hearing the words that changed everything.

After having to deliver the news over a FaceTime call, we decided to get to the airport early. We parked and went inside to wait for Ben to come through security.

When he finally walked out of the secured area, Austin saw him first.

He ran straight toward his dad and wrapped him in a big hug.

I followed behind him, and the moment I reached Ben I just fell into his arms.

And we cried.

Right there in the airport.

The four of us standing together, holding each other, still trying to process what we had just been told. Still trying to breathe through the shock. Still trying to understand how the future we had been imagining had suddenly changed.

Our plans.

Our hopes.

Our dreams.

Everything felt different.

Diagnosis day didn’t just give us medical information.

It marked the moment our journey with Ethan shifted.

From hoping for outcomes

to treasuring time.

From asking what if

to learning how to live fully in what is.

There are no neat conclusions here. No tidy ending to wrap this day up with understanding or clarity.

There is only love, deep, aching, unwavering love for our son and the quiet resolve to walk faithfully through whatever days we are given with him.

This is where our story changed.

Not where it ended.

Isaiah 41:10