The rocking chair was bare and hard—not padded and comfortable like the one I enjoyed at home. My feverish 11-month-old son, currently battling the flu, was finally sleeping in my arms.
I cradled him with my right arm and with my left I covered my in utero child who was hopefully resting more peacefully than I was at that moment.
Was it only that morning that we had excitedly packed up the kids to make the trip to the hospital to get the first glimpse of our new baby? At first I didn’t notice anything unusual about this ultrasound. I’d had several before, and was feeling quite relaxed. As the procedure continued on and on, my anxiety became more acute and by the time we reached the one-hour point, I was in a panic. Of course the technician could tell me nothing. Because of the duration of the ultrasound, I was late for my scheduled doctor’s appointment, and when I finally did arrive, I was taken in immediately and sent directly back to the hospital. I still had received very little information, which had not eased my apprehension at all.
So I sit and rock back and forth in a double hospital room. One bed had been replaced with a crib for my nursing son. The door to the room was shut, leaving me alone to consider my immediate future—and my preborn child’s.
Just a short while before, a team of doctors had attempted to help me understand the rare and intricate developments that had complicated my pregnancy. Many of the things they said were beyond me, but the bottom line was clear: My child’s life was seriously endangering mine.
The predisposition of the medical staff to choose my life over that of my preborn child surprised me. I was en-couraged to consider my young child at home and the son sleeping in my arms. Didn’t they need a mother to watch over them? At that moment, I was far too upset to carry on a reasonable discussion. It seemed to me that my preborn child was the one most in need of a mother’s protection. Why was it so obvious to them that my life had more value than the life of my child?
“Many of the things they said were beyond me, but the bottom line was clear: My child’s life was seriously endangering mine.”
Back and forth I rock. The thought of my young children growing up without their mother brings fresh tears to my eyes. The little things come to mind. Who would sing to them each night? Who would comfort them during life’s hurts and disappointments? Yet as I cradled my son, it was so easy to picture my new baby in his place. Didn’t this child also have a right to live? And so back and forth I rock.
This story has a happy ending. After what seemed like an endless amount of turmoil, further tests performed at a later date showed that the original findings had been in error. Anger and insult flamed within me as I realized that they would have had me abort my child over a diagnostic error! But I had held firm. I continued the pregnancy, keeping a wary eye on the medical professionals. I was determined that no one but God would remove this child from my body until there was a very reasonable chance of survival.
As if to prove this point, my daughter was born three weeks after my due date—healthy, safe and with a definite attitude. Today, she is an energetic ten-year-old child. She has an unusual love of babies. And she still has that attitude!
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