Choosing Life, Choosing Grace

Ten years ago this past February I dropped my eldest daughter off at a Valentine's day party and then dropped by the Walgreen's around the corner from my house to pick up a pregnancy test. They say when women live or work in the same atmosphere for an extended time, their menstrual cycles start to sync up.  On the way to that party my daughter asked me to stop at the store and buy her some feminine hygiene items; that was when I realized it was time for my own period, and it hadn't started.
A few days before I had a feeling.  I can't really describe it, but something told me I was pregnant even before I realized I had skipped a cycle.  I remember lying on the couch, feeling a little excited and a lot terrified at the prospect, then pushing the ridiculous thought out of my head.  It just couldn't be.  My doctor had cautioned me after my second child, "No more pregnancies!" she said.

At the time my daughter was born in 1994 I had not yet been diagnosed with IgA Nephropathy, an autoimmune disease of unknown origin that attacks the kidneys.  Although I had symptoms of some disorder during that pregnancy, along with preterm labor, my doctors had not been able to figure out the source of the protein in my urine specimens every month.  I made it through that pregnancy with a healthy baby, followed by months of tests and x-rays in an effort to find and diagnose the problem with my kidneys.  Then life continued on, with no definitive diagnosis until I was almost 30.

Eventually I would be diagnosed with this dreadful autoimmune disease and I was told that by my 50's I would need dialysis or a transplant to continue to live.  So with that big gray cloud hanging over my head, I kept my bi-yearly appointments with my nephrologist and lived my life, trying not to be too focused on the "what-if's" of the future.

On that February night when I was 35 years old, having advanced to stage 3 kidney failure, I drove home with two pregnancy tests and went straight to the bathroom.  I pulled one out, read the directions and made sure I followed them to the letter.  I couldn't afford a mistake.  With trembling hands I sat and watched as two pink lines appeared on that little white stick.  I threw it away, pulled out the other test and repeated the process.  Two pink lines again, staring me in the face, threatening my very life--or at least that's how it felt.

I called my son's dad into the bedroom, showed him the test with tears in my eyes.  I wish I could say they were tears of joy, but they were tears of absolute terror.  My OB had told me in no uncertain terms that another pregnancy could end my life, and there I stood with a positive pregnancy test.  My son's father looked at the white stick, the two pink lines, shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on me.  He walked back to the computer, sat down and proceeded to play the game he'd been playing all afternoon.

I followed him, thinking that perhaps he didn't understand the gravity of the situation.  I stood leaning on the kitchen counter, tears streaming down my face as he tried his best to ignore me.  Eventually he looked at me and said, "Everything will be okay." Then went back to his game.

On Monday I made an appointment with my Nephrologist.  I needed to know if this was possible.  Could I carry a baby to term?  Would my kidneys fail?  Would I die, leaving my daughters without a mother?  Was I going to be faced with choosing between the child in my womb, and the children under my roof?

My partner went with me to that appointment.  We sat in a tiny exam room waiting for the doctor to come in and consult with us.  He was a short blonde doctor with tiny glasses and quick, sharp mannerisms.  He leaned against the table, looked me in the eye and said, "There's no way you can have a baby.  Your kidney function will not support you and a fetus, and frankly it would be irresponsible of you to risk your life this way when you have two other children to consider."

I was devastated.  Until that very moment I had never thought of myself as someone who would ever consider abortion.  My nephrologist gave me pamphlets, referred me to websites and suggested I get an appointment with my gynecologist ASAP to make plans to terminate the pregnancy and then get my tubes tied so this couldn't happen again.  My partner stood there nodding, agreeing vehemently with the doctor, and I felt more alone than I had ever been in my life.

I told no one I was pregnant for several weeks.  I went to my gyno, who seemed to disagree with the nephrologists assessment of my ability to carry a child to term.  She said she could refer me to a maternal and fetal medicine specialist who could give me more accurate information.  So leaving there with a little more hope, I made the appointment with the specialist and waited.

I researched mortality rates of babies born to mothers with kidney disease.  I researched mortality rates of mothers who had babies while battling advanced kidney disease.  I looked at charts and statistics and obsessed over what would happen to my daughters if my kidneys failed while I was pregnant, I imagined scenarios of my dying, my baby being stillborn, and my daughters being motherless.  I had a real moral dilemma on my hands, and not one person with whom I could discuss it.  My partner wanted the abortion.  He didn't understand why I would put my life at risk to have another child. He didn't want another child.  He was angry, and even made comments to the effect of hoping I would miscarry.

I began to feel that the only truly responsible thing to do was to terminate my pregnancy.  I, the person who a few months before could never have fathomed having an abortion, was looking up local providers, researching procedures, estimating the cost of scheduling and appointment for an abortion.

I am no murderer of babies.  I have nurtured life within my own body, loved children whose eyes I had never looked into.  I have marvelled at the little kicks and bumps, the sound of a heartbeat beneath my own.  I have watched that ultrasound screen and cried at the sight of the tiny being taking up residence in my body as I gave it life.  I understood what was at stake, I understood the weight of the choice I had to make and I had decided it was what I must do.  I had to be responsible for the two children who were already depending on me.  I couldn't leave them motherless, and I feared bringing a child into the world that I wouldn't be around to nurture, love and raise to adulthood.

I was close to making that appointment one Monday afternoon when I got the call back from the Maternal and Fetal medicine specialist asking me to come in for a consultation.  I put my plan on hold and went to see the specialist alone.  He did an ultrasound, while I was there. It was too early for a heart beat, but I could clearly see the spine of that tiny being growing in my womb.  It didn't look like a little person yet, but I new that within a matter of weeks it would have little fingers and toes and that the longer I waited to make my decision, the harder it would be.

I asked the doctor, "Can I have a healthy baby? Will I survive?"
"I can't say for sure." He answered. "But I have mothers here who are having babies and they have worse kidney function than you. I'd say if they can do it, you can too, but it will not be without complication, and you will likely lose some kidney function as a result."

He was not judgmental and he didn't try to steer me in one way or another. He gave me facts, and the decision, with its full weight was laid in my lap.  No one could make it for me, and whatever happened, the consequences were mine alone.  I didn't want to abandon my girls, but I didn't want to let go of one last chance to nurture life again.

I took a leap of faith and decided to continue my pregnancy.

My son will be ten years old this year.  He was born a month early, and I, indeed suffered further loss of my kidney function as a result of the pregnancy.  It took me a full 2 years to recover fully from the pregnancy and at that point, my kidney function started to decline more rapidly than before.  By the time he was seven years old, I was on dialysis.  He will, for much of his life, remember me with a tube in my belly, sleeping hooked up to a machine.  He will never really know me as the energetic, healthy, vibrant person  I once was.

 I have no regrets.  I would do it all over again and again because that little boy infused me with hope, with purpose, and with a determination to survive that I don't think I'd have ever had without him.

But what if I had chosen to terminate my pregnancy?  Indeed, I would be living a different life right now.  I would likely not be on dialysis.  I'd be furthering my career, instead of working part-time in a job I'm over qualified for because it's close to his school and allows me the time I need to take care of my son.  Perhaps I'd be remarried, or at least dating.  I probably wouldn't have lost my house a couple of years ago, and I'm sure I'd be in a much more secure financial situation.  I'd still be here for my daughters when they needed me, and I might even have financial resources to help them out more.

I don't regret having my son and I never have.  He is my survival story, more than any of the other challenges I have overcome, he is the apex of my life as it is now.  I wouldn't change it for a thing.

But if another woman in my same shoes made a different choice, I would never judge her.  I wouldn't call her a murderer, or irresponsible or evil.  I would know the weight of that choice, I would understand what it's like to weigh my own survival and the good of my children against the survival of an unborn child who might end up growing up without a dependable parent.

I was raised by a father who made it his number one goal to teach me right from wrong.  He taught me to serve others, to love others and to honor the sacredness of life.  He taught me that God's love is our responsibility--that our greatest opportunity as humble creatures of Earth was to embody that love, to extend grace to our fellow man, and to uphold our responsibilities to our children and to all mankind as children of God.

In all the ugliness and vitriol of our current world, it seems so many have either lost sight of our true purpose as God's children or have never truly embraced it.  My friends, those out there who love me and some who (for reasons I don't understand) seem to look up to me, don't know that I was once one of "those women" who had to stand on the precipice of a decision regarding life and death.  They don't know that I really just tossed the dice and decided to live with whatever turned up.

I sometimes hear them make statements about "murdering women" or "irresponsible women" or "Women who should keep their legs together if they don't want babies," and what they don't know is that they're talking about me.  I had an unplanned pregnancy. I had to decide whether to risk my life and the life of a fetus, and because I chose to take that risk, they are unaware of the struggle that came with it.  They don't know what it's like to have a doctor look you in the eye and say, "You will die if you have this child."

I am a Democrat.  I am a Feminist.  I believe we can never really understand another person's struggle unless we've walked the same path as them.  As a white woman, I've never faced discrimination based on the color of my skin.  I've never been accused of being a murderer or terrorist because of my spiritual beliefs.  I've never been told that my sexual orientation was an abomination to God, or that I didn't have the right to love whomever I loved.  I have never gone hungry or gone homeless or had to flee a country where my own countrymen wanted to kill me for not embracing their radical beliefs.

Struggle finds its way into every life in some way; however, I realize I am blessed, I am privileged merely because I am white, I am employed, I'm American (and my Americanness is never questioned because of the color of my skin or because of my religion).  I am privileged because I have access to healthcare, I have a car that gets me to work every day and I have a strong support network of friends and community that is not threatened by extremists or even local law enforcement.

I want people who don't understand me to be able to step into my shoes and try to see life from my perspective.  On some level, we all need and want that; but in order to receive it, we must be willing to leave our own comfort zones and dare to see the world as others experience it too.  That lack of willingness betrays itself in the hateful rhetoric of the far Right.  The "conservatives" who claim to have a monopoly on access to God's will and wisdom.  I can see their perspective, because I used to be one of them, and I remember that in order to cling so tightly to my beliefs as a fundamentalist, I had to create huge walls around myself that kept me from even considering the struggles of people who were different from me.  I had to live in a bubble, surround myself with only like-minded, judgmental, leather-hearted people who saw God as a great punisher, rather than the God of mercy, love and grace that he actually is.

When I hear someone say, "Let's build a wall!" I know what they're saying.  When I hear someone say, "Let's kick them all out of our country!" I understand the thought process.  When I hear someone bemoan equal rights for women, blacks, hispanics, Muslims and gay people, I understand where they're coming from because there was a time, a long time ago, that I was there with them; in the dark.

It was a darkness I experienced from a church pew every Sunday morning.  A darkness that shrouded my efforts to pray and draw closer to God.  It was a darkness that blinded me to my true purpose on this Earth--the only purpose Jesus gave to one and all in the new testament.  The purpose of Loving one another and of Loving God with all that is within us.  It is only by embracing those commandments of love that we will ever evolve into the society we are supposed to be.  It's the only way to win against hate, fear and ignorance.

Love, in its purest form is the only way to bring light into the darkness and dispel the illusion that one man, or one group of people are the only ones who have a direct line to God. It is the only way we will ever truly fulfill our true purpose as mankind, endowed with such amazing ability to extend grace to one another.  It's the only way we can learn to appreciate the individual trials and struggles and difficult choices everyone eventually will have to make.

Some of the Craziest Things Elders Have Said To Me

I have worked with seniors for many years.  Often I have met elders who are full of wisdom and advice and cannot wait to share it with me.  Sometimes their comments are uncomfortably personal, other times, they are oddly interesting, and still others venture into the inappropriate or even insulting.  Here are the top ten comments and bits of sage advice I've gotten from seniors over the years.

1. "You aren't the type of girl who should be married.  You are too fun to be tied to a husband."  This was said to me by a 70-something year-old man in a wheelchair who liked to kiss my hand every morning and ask personal questions about my love life.  Questions that I avoided answering in any detail.  I didn't ask him what he meant by this comment, but I think we can infer his meaning.

2. "I don't see why you aren't married or don't have a boyfriend.  You'd make a good wife.  You aren't too aggravating at all."  Said by an 80 something client with whom I sat and chatted for a few minutes every morning after breakfast.  He explained that he had been observing me and had notice that I was easy-going and got along well with everyone.  "Men want a woman who is not aggravating, and you aren't too bad.  You should be able to find a man if you want one."  Thanks mister...I always wanted to know that my most endearing quality was "not too aggravating."

3. "If you want a man to marry you, you have to get yourself pregnant."  This, from an 80-something woman who spent time looking through Victoria's Secret catalogs and pointing out lingere that I should buy.  She told me she'd buy it for herself if her husband weren't dead.  When I told her I didn't have a husband, she said I should wear it for my boyfriend.  When I told her I didn't have a boyfriend, she said "If you wore that you would!"

4. "When you and your husband make love, do you make a lot of noise?"  This was asked by a retired dentist who had a reputation for making inappropriate comments and attempting inappropriate physical touch with staff as well as other residents in an assisted living facility where I worked.  I ignored the question (red-faced) and asked him to leave my office.  Instead, he cornered me at my desk and proceeded to regale me with tales of his own sexual exploits with his "noisy" ex wife.  I was relieved when a co-worker entered the room and Mr. Dentist figured out it was time for him to exit.

5. "Your butt looks good in that dress.  Turn around and let me see it jiggle again."  Said to me by an assisted living resident as I walked to the door of his apartment to leave after dropping in to invite him to an activity.  I told him, "No, I'm not going to turn around, but thanks for the compliment.  Don't be a dirty old man."  To which he laughed and said, "Just because I'm old doesn't meant I don't notice a nice butt when I see it."

6. "Are those glasses supposed to look good?  Because they really look awful and I have no idea why you'd wear something like that on your face."  Um...so I can see, Mr. Eyewear Fashion Expert.  By the way, he said this to me DAILY.  So I finally got a new pair of glasses.  He still told me they were ugly.  Can't. Win.

7. "You cheated me at the BANGO (BINGO) and you cheat me every time because you don't like me. I'm going to get you, you little white bitch!" Then he proceeded to trap me in a corner with his wheelchair and hurl profanities at me until a co-worker came along and rescued me.  Turns out he was in our facility (at around 45 years old) because he was released from prison early due to his health.  He had murdered his wife and then botched his own suicide by shooting himself in the head in the wrong spot, resulting in brain injury.  He was the same resident who threatened to stab other BINGO players with a fork if he didn't win.

8. "If I could get some Viagra, do you think I'd have a chance with you?"  Asked by an elderly hospice patient with whom I had established a friendship.  He also asked this question of the nurse who visited him the next day.  The nurse, who was a male, responded that if he, the patient, had a chance he might have a chance himself, but unfortunately they were both probably out of luck.

9."No, I don't want to play BINGO or go to sing-a-longs or parties with old farts, so quit asking me and leave me the hell alone."  I kept going to visit him and eventually talked him into playing word games with the group.  He turned out to be an expert crossword puzzle solver and a connoisseur of romantic poetry.

10. "Hey mister, you wanna see my D*ck?" Said repeatedly by an elderly lady who sat in the hallway at Christmas time, asking me and every other person who walked by, this very confusing question.  When I gently and quietly reminded her that she was a lady and didn't have that body part and probably shouldn't ask that question of everyone who walked past, she answered, "Well my husband has a huge one and he loves to use it.  Whoooweee, he wore me out!"  After that, I decided to go sit with her in her room and get her to tell me stories about they days when she was a Sunday School Teacher.  It was a much better situation for her, me and everyone else.  Merry Christmas!

I'm sure if I gave it some more thought, I could come up with many more phrases that took me by surprise over the years.  Some were from patients with dementia, and some were from folks who were still of sound mind.  The reality is, as we age our social filters fall away and we feel free to say what's on our minds, regardless of how it affects other people or their opinions of us.  I suppose it can be a blessing and a curse; not caring what people think of you would be amazingly liberating but having people avoid you because they're worried about what you'll say next could get rather lonely.

Perhaps the most endearing quote of all came from a highly intelligent resident with whom I had spent an entire morning looking up and listening to Irish tunes and bands on YouTube just before our St. Patrick's Day celebration.  During the party the band was playing and everyone was singing along, having a great time when he looked over at me and with smiling eyes exclaimed, "What we need...Is a Unicorn!"  He meant to say Leprechaun, but the comment made us all laugh, including him, and has become a phrase I use a lot in times of extreme stress.  It always brings a smile to my face and a sweet memory of a great guy who was always a pleasure to be around.  It has become the phrase I use to remind myself that even on the worst days, life shouldn't be taken so darned seriously.  Thanks for that one, Bill.