Friends of mine had a baby, a little girl. Beautiful, dear angel—all smiles, dimples deep enough to stash quarters, crinkled her nose when she laughed, pushed the air through it in a mischievous snicker. Bald as an egg the first two years of her life.
That baby grew from a chunky-legged infant to a teetering toddler, clinging to every stick of furniture, grasping every finger to hold while she made her way ‘round house, church, and grocery. She HATED to be carried now that she knew how to walk: FIERCELY independent, from the moment she realized her freedom lay in putting one foot in front of the other.
Flash forward a few years of scraped knees, snaggle-toothed smiles, wonky pigtails, and fridge art. Time skitters by a little more to the dreaded days of colossal crushes and giggle whispers, homecoming dances and prom dates; tassels and mortar boards, sheepskins and scholarships.
Then THAT boy came along. <sigh> You didn’t know what to make of him: he was quiet and didn’t really “mesh” with the family, but he LOVED that little girl in a way we couldn’t—honored her, cherished her, listened to her, protected her, VALUED her. She trusted him with her heart and he took that responsibility very seriously. We warmed to him, but he was always more “hers” than “ours.” <shrug> OK. It wasn’t OUR ideal situation, but, y’know, that’s how it went.
They married. I sang. I couldn’t look at them at the altar because I can either sing…or I can cry. I can’t do both. Fact. Finished the song, took my seat, yanked the hanky. Waterworks.
Cake was cut, life began. Jobs, house, honeymoon. Normal, right? Then they found out they were expecting. We could NOT have been happier. ALL of us. Her bony elbows and knobby knees rounded with the rest of her—FINALLY, thank goodness—and we all rejoiced as the new life swelled in her along with our hearts, our hopes, our excitement for the new addition to the family.
Then, 10 weeks before she was to deliver, the unthinkable. We’d never even heard the words “placental abruption.” Those who weren’t talking to the doctor ran to phones, just to gauge the severity of the situation. There was a choice to be made.
How do you choose between the little girl you’ve known for the past 24 years and the little stranger you’ve loved for as long as it’s existed? I cannot imagine the fear, the abject bewilderment and helplessness in the hearts and minds of the family that surrounded these two precious lives.
It wasn’t up to me, but I was grateful the family had the CHOICE. That sweet blessing stayed with the angels instead of coming down to us, and we got to keep Momma. For what seemed like an eternity, they dealt with anger, loss, and a phantom of wounded disquiet that refused to move on. But after about a year, they took another chance at starting a family.
Nine months of an EXTRA-vigilant pregnancy delivered a healthy baby girl, spitting image of the roly-poly pinkness I remember from about a quarter-century ago. Just as bald, too. Heh.
And though it is absolutely, 100%, without-a-doubt, NONE OF MY BUSINESS WHATSOEVER, I am beyond grateful in my heart of hearts that this family had an OPTION and that we got to keep one because of a choice instead of losing both because of an obligation. They made the best decision they could with the facts of the situation, praying all the while they made the right one.
Not every decision of this sort is made by monsters, friends; though I can see how you’d think that if you hadn’t lived through it. That’s an ugly picture being painted in broad, ugly strokes across a HUGE canvas. Those choices are also made by folks who love and want those babies, MORE THAN ANTYHING, and have prayed—in earnest—for the privilege to be parents, but can’t bring themselves to lose the daughter, friend, wife, future mother in the hopes of saving a little one.
Love y’all.