My grandmother had a keen intuition. I wouldn’t go as far to say she was psychic. She just had a knowledge of things before the rest of us. She predicted the gender of all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. All of them except one.
From the time I met David, my grandmother predicted that we would have one child and it would be a boy. When I finally got pregnant I was convinced the baby was a boy and would only consider boy names. David asked, “what if the baby is a girl?”
“It isn’t. This baby is a boy.”
He pressed for a name. I tossed out, “Emily, but it doesn’t matter. It is a boy.”
The day of my ultrasound the technician moved the wand all over poking and prodding, but she could not get the baby to spread his legs to confirm what I already knew.
Finally the radiologist came in the room and took over the controls. About two minutes later she announced, “you’re having a girl.”
“You’re wrong. I am having a boy.” I responded adamantly.
She then proceeded to show me from numerous angles all of the female parts the baby growing inside of me possessed. I lay there in shock unable to say anything. All I could think was, “but what about my son?” My dream of a little boy named after my Daddy with his grin, my eyes, and David’s wit were doused beneath sticky ultrasound gel.
It took me a couple of days to really register the news that I was having a daughter instead of a son. David and I were sitting in a restaurant when I burst into tears. Through sobs I explained, “But her name’s not Emily…”
David, at a complete loss with how to deal with me, responded, “That’s okay. We can pick out a different name. A better name.”
A few days later I was on the phone with my mom lamenting the fact that I didn’t have a name for my little bundle.
“How about Cady?”
A light went off and my sadness immediately cleared, not only because my baby would now have a name, but also for my son that was not to be. Cady was my mother-in-law’s maiden name. She passed away almost exactly 10 years before we found out we were having a daughter.
“That’s perfect,” I told my mom. “Cady Frances. That’s my daughter.”
Frances was my grandmother’s name. My daughter would be named after two of the most loving women I’ve ever known. She would inherit their generosity and strength of spirit. My daughter had a name.
A few months later, after seven years of infertility and months of a hard, painful pregnancy, they laid that baby girl in my arms. That was when I realized why my grandmother did not know she was coming. My baby was a true miracle. She was the baby that we were never supposed to have, but that God chose to bless us with anyway.