Loving Children More than Convenience

I have an older sister that I have never met and will never meet this side of eternity. Her name is Kimberly and she died shortly after her premature birth, which occurred in her sixth month of life. My parents grieved her loss and desperately wanted a child, but the medical community at the time was not optimistic that my mother would ever bear her own children. If she managed to deliver a viable child, they were quite certain that the child would be disabled due to her condition. The horrid prospect of a difficult pregnancy along with the loss of her first child was very painful to my mother, and I know how she misses her first daughter even today.

Due to this event, my mother discovered that she has a condition that requires her to undergo a surgery toward the end of the first trimester if she is to carry a child to term. My mother’s desire to have children was greater than her fear of losing another child or of inconveniencing herself. My parents tried for quite a time to conceive another. Ultimately they began to see doctors to find out what the problem was, but one after the other told her that it was “all in her head” and that she should just relax. Eventually they chanced upon a doctor who was willing to take some unusual steps to help his patient.

He explained that the problem she was having was physical in nature. I haven’t asked what that problem was, but my mother needed infertility pills to conceive me. Before they would be prescribed to her, though, the doctor had my mom sit down with a lady with a similar problem to determine if my mom truly wanted to put herself through the trials that she asked for. The coming months did not sound the least bit enjoyable, but like I said earlier, my mother’s desire to have children was greater than her fear of losing another child or of inconveniencing herself.

This surgery is complex and requires general anesthesia, which usually causes nausea. I believe Amy Scott can imagine what her discomforts would be like if she had just undergone an extremely sensitive surgery requiring that she be put under. But much like my mother, Amy’s desire to have children is greater than her fears of inconvenience.

As she recovered from the surgery, my mother was given some orange juice to drink. I have no idea why any nurse would give something so acidic to a patient certain to be sick, but that’s what they gave her. Her nausea was quite… forceful, or so I’m told. Over the next few days, she began to lose her amniotic fluid. The doctors reversed the surgery and told my mother that she would miscarry within two weeks.

Two weeks came and went, and my mother reported to the hospital. I can only imagine the grief she felt as she entered those doors, certain to leave in a day or so with another shred of hope in children of her own taken from her. In conversation, I was told that the device used to listen for a baby in early 1973 was pretty low-tech, but nonetheless, the nurse thought she heard something. She listened closer and began to hear a noise that sounded like a heartbeat. The “whish-whish” sound must have been pure music to my mother after two weeks of grieving. My parents were told that there were only two known cases where something like this had happened and the child had lived. I can only imagine the horror they felt when asked if they wanted to continue the pregnancy. Of course they wanted to choose life over death. They had been choosing life the entire time. Why should that change?

A re-application of that same surgery was immediately done and my mother was put on bed rest for the remainder of the pregnancy. When she would get up, it was to use the restroom. Then she had to recline once again. Every effort was made for her body not to be jarred any more than necessary. A high school student babysitting an egg for human reproduction class may be able to relate to the care my parents had to take just to see a child! Even the steps toward the bathroom had to be gingerly placed to avoid a rupture that could have been lethal to me.

That is a glimpse of what my mother’s life was for months. Uncertainty, bed sores, boredom, sore muscles from infrequent use and a trying pregnancy. Working outside the home was out of the question and the traditional duties of a god-fearing wife were impossible in her situation. I ponder what the average American woman would do today if placed into this situation. Would her love for the child within her be eclipsed by her love for comfort and money? This may not be a “fair” question for me to ask, but I feel compelled to ask it. What would a young woman in today’s society most likely do? If offered the same uncertainty and the same likely prospects, what would you choose? What is the value of life?

The pregnancy continued and the due date was a bit more than a month away when my father had a birthday. He enjoys outdoor activities and homemade ice cream quite a bit, and the young married couple’s group at their church wanted to have an outdoor volleyball party for him. He refused at first, since his wife could not join him, but she argued that he should not miss the fun on her account. She told him that they could bring a lounge chair with them and that she would be fine just watching the fun.

So far, so good. The volleyball was a spirited game of twenty-somethings who still are willing to fight tooth and nail to win the game and the ice cream was exceptional. It seemed like a wonderful day for all when suddenly it happened. My mom needed to use the restroom. There is a point where selflessness is not a good idea, but my mother had lived for months doing nothing for herself. The thought that she should interrupt a spirited game so she could be carried up just a few steps into the house seemed preposterous. Besides, if she gingerly took the steps one at a time, all would be well.

Those few steps caused her to go into labor that evening. The hospital called the doctor on call and he decided that she would deliver the following morning. First they had to undue the surgery that had enabled her to carry me as far as she had, and I was born an hour and a half later. The medical staff was all astounded when they saw me. I had none of the physical or mental defects you would expect from such a complicated pregnancy.

At my six-week checkup, the doctor told my parents that they had a miracle baby. What is a miracle, though? What is the simplest definition for such a thing? A miracle is anything that man can not accomplish without an act of God on their behalf.

Using that definition, life itself is a miracle. The fact that I am alive and (somewhat) normal is no more miraculous than the fact that you are alive and reading this post right now. Since we owe our very existence to the grace of God we owe our every moment to the glory of His name. We have not met this requirement, but can turn to the only one who has. The birth of Jesus Christ was a miracle as well. Because he was born into this world, he is the perfect sacrifice for the sins of man. He is the ideal that we all long for whether we realize it or not.

There is no limit to the work of God to see events unfurl toward His ultimate glory. For reasons unbeknownst to us, this sometimes manifests itself in the miracle of life and sometimes His will is accomplished in the ending of a life. We don’t know the number of days allotted to us, but when we look upon each and every person as a gift from God, we realize more clearly our responsibility to do all things to the Glory of our benefactor. If it is true that all things are subject to the glory of God, we can do Him no greater honor than to acknowledge our need for His grace and actively seek to share this good news with those who desperately need to hear the gospel.