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.