The life of the mother

By Linda A. Prussen-Razzano
web posted June 21, 2004

The last emotion I expected to feel was fear. Yet, there it was, a
niggling sensation cinching the pit of my stomach, so dramatically
different from my other pregnancies.

I have a good reason to be afraid.

During the several long, and often painful, years that my husband
and I attempted to conceive a child, I became accustomed to
hiding my grief. When pregnancy tests came back negative, I
would slap on a brave face for the world and muffle my sobs into
towels behind a locked bathroom door. I can still recall, with
bitter clarity, the conflicting tests results – pregnant, not pregnant,
pregnant – only to learn that my hostile womb did not accept a
fertilized egg. That gentle glow of life had flickered out, allowing
me to catch just the briefest glance of its dimming light.

I didn't understand it. My husband and I shared a loving,
committed, and stable relationship. We were financially secure
and owned a comfortable home. We tried, in all ways, to live by
the golden rules. We had so much love in our hearts; a baby
would only enhance our joy. We were prepared to make all the
sacrifices, to put our children first, to protect, to nurture, to
cherish. With each passing month, I grew more despondent, felt
more worthless, and saw myself as less than whole.

I placed the matter into God's hands, knowing that He alone
created life. Please, Lord, I prayed, show me the way You want
me to go. Adopt? Wait? Be a mother to another? I prayed to
accept His decision with grace, with a glad heart.

To our supreme delight, He blessed us with a beautiful boy, born
just 40 weeks later.

Before the year was out, I was pregnant again. This time, I was
carrying a girl. At 32 weeks, I hemorrhaged. I can still remember
my husband's strength on that day, his firm assurances despite
the blanching of his face, and how his hands seemed to
effortlessly guide me from a dark and horrifying place.

Twelve days later, our beloved girl was home. The days of tubes
and needles and beeping machines were over. The days of
staggering medical bills had begun. But all of it was worth it,
worth it a hundred times over, for the delight of my daughter's
voice, the gentle lilt of her laughter, the wonderful smell of her
soft skin.

In the two and a half years that have passed, many things have
changed. My babies are riding bikes without training wheels,
coloring and drawing, saying grace at mealtimes, and playing
with friends. We're still struggling to pay off the debt, my
endometriosis returned, and my pap-smears have come back
with pre-cancer cells. After surgery and a menstrual cycle as
frequent and erratic as buck shot fired into a calendar, we
believed our days of little feet were over.

But God had other things in mind.

This I know: I am at a very high risk to lose my baby. I am a
cancer risk. I am nearing 40, and there is every likelihood my
baby will be perilously premature. My heart rate plummeted
dangerously during my daughter's c-section and the recovery
was terribly slow. By the grace of God, alone, we both pulled
through.
 
I'm afraid that this little one will never know my arms, afraid that
he or she won't survive to feel my touch, afraid that I won't
survive to touch them.

This I also know: On the day I married, I vowed to accept
children lovingly from God. A little soul is already nestled inside
me, attached to me forever. God gave me this baby for a reason,
and fear will not prevent me from doing everything I can,
everything I must, to see it born.

Even if it means my life.

Linda Prussen-Razzano is frequent contributor to Enter Stage
Right and a number of other online magazines.

Enter Stage Right -- http://www.enterstageright.com