She presses down the wand against my abdomen as I lay on my back, skin exposed, in a warm room.
"Only see the yolk sack," I think she murmurs. "Must be early."
I assure her of dates but she shakes her head as though I don't know or understand.
I shake my head at her.
But she's right about both things nonetheless:
I don't know
any of it.
I don't understand her.
I don't understand what I'm seeing on the screen as it projects grainy images from what's growing inside me.
And I don't know.
I don't know any more than when I first walked into the ultrasound room.
"All I say is you are pregnant," she says.
I lie motionless in the dark room and one thought comes to my mind over and over and over after she tries to give me the weeks and days in numbers that I should count my pregnancy.
"Nothing is impossible with God."
It's the same thought He gave me a few weeks ago when my hormone levels didn't seem to match with possible conception dates ... which were later found to be off because of a calculation error only.
God doesn't miscalculate.
"And nothing is impossible with God."
I hear the words run over and over in my mind, and I want to shoo them away because everything that I'm seeing right now seems to say impossible.
But they persist.
And those are the first words from John's lips after he greets me in the waiting room.
"Nothing is impossible, honey," he says. "We'll wait another week, and we'll see."
We will wait.
We'll wait while I don't know, while I don't understand.
Any of it.
For that He does.
And it's enough for today.