Date:   4/16/2009 3:29:04 PM ( 15 y ago)
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URL:   https://www.curezone.org/forums/fm.asp?i=1398373

It was a beautiful August night. The warm air felt sooooo good, and it filled the senses with the fragrance of distant flowers. Crickets could be distinctly heard despite the surrounding concrete of the parking lot, and their songs were joyous. In downtown Toledo, Ohio, with all of its city lights, the sky could be seen and was incredibly clear; it was lit with the brightness of a million stars. The heavens were full of the satisfying answers to the hopes and dreams of many, many years.

Walking out of the medical center, Paul and I had just finished our last childbirth class. Choosing the Lamaze Method, with its relaxing breathing exercises, we learned together how to work through the pain of childbirth. Approaching our vehicle, and being an immensely pregnant short woman, I was comforted by my husband's broad-shouldered 200-pound six-foot frame. Being in the heart of the city, late at night, I had no need to fear with him at my side. A handsome man, his neatly trimmed light brown hair matched the color of my own. Our blue eyes danced as they met through matching wire-framed glasses, and his thick mustache tickled as our lips met briefly for a playful kiss. After nineteen years of marriage and nearing forty, we were at long last due with just one more month to go. We were expecting our first (and most like only) child.

Grabbing an internal side handle and hoisting myself up into our van, I plopped down onto the bucket seat and reached for my seatbelt. Upon learning I was pregnant, I decided that safety was imperative. At the age of thirty-nine I left nothing to chance. I made certain that my baby had every possible advantage: especially including good nutrition and denying all medication and drugs.

Patting my big belly, I grasped the city roadmap. An unfortunate change in my husband's job forced a recent move from our beloved home in the countryside. With help from my sister's family and two wonderful friends, we had finished moving into a small rented house within the city just the day before. The future, concerning job and home, was uncertain.

But all of that didn't matter. Absolutely giddy, nothing could distract us from our joy. We were looking forward to meeting our long-awaited daughter and had already chosen her name: Christine.

Pulling out of the parking lot and onto a side road, Paul had difficulty choosing which way to turn onto the main road. Lost in my thoughts of the birth to come, and lost in the map, I tried to help choose the best way to go. We mutually agreed to turn right. Seeing that we were approaching a well-lit intersection and the traffic light was about to turn red, I buried my head in the map again. Wanting to decipher the quickest way to our rental, I started to trace out the roads. I finally found a nice little route that seemed to work out.

"KAREN!"

Halfway into memorizing the route, I was instantly annoyed; "WHA...?"

Suddenly. Harshly. Unexpectedly. Loudly.

We were forcefully hit from behind; I was instantly frantic. Screaming, my only thought was about my baby, and how I can't lose her, not now, not ever! I couldn't stop crying. It was the only thing I could do. It was the only thing I knew HOW to do. Throughout my hysteria, it dawned on me that Paul saw whatever was coming from behind because he yelled out my name just before the impact. He asked if I was all right. Unable to stop the flow of tears, I choked out that I was okay. Firmly placing his squeezing hands on my shoulders, he looked directly into my eyes and exclaimed, "I'm going to get Suzy!"

We were still in front of the medical center. We had not even driven a block. Suzy was the sweet, yet informative obstetric nurse who taught our class. Watching Paul run toward the building, I noticed he was hurt; he was limping badly. Jumbled images circled throughout my mind. I became afraid and thought about the potential hazard of the car catching on fire. At that point, a young man came pounding on my door.

"Are you alright?" he shouted, "Can you get out?" I worked on getting my seatbelt and shoulder harness undone. I fidgeted with them; it seemed to take forever to get them off me. Still weeping uncontrollably, I stumbled out of the car. Walking feebly, I willed myself toward the medical center. Not knowing what happened to the young man I realized that I was alone again. Finding myself in the grassy median between the main road and the parking lot, I just stopped. I simply stood there, my tears being an endless fountain. Slowly, I turned around.

In doing so, I hazily acknowledged the picture before me: the crumpled backside of our van, the smashed front end of a white convertible, a young man holding his head, the flashing top lights of a police car. I remember seeing multitudes of people converging toward me. They seemed to be coming from everywhere, from every direction. Someone might have spoken to me, but I did not openly acknowledge it. My mind was not in full comprehension; it was set upon my baby, upon my precious daughter. She was kicking like a soccer player during class. Now, she was still.

Suddenly, Paul and Suzy arrived. I was comforted by my husband's return. Suzy sternly commanded, "KAREN, sit down!" I faintly heard someone mentioning me needing a blanket, but Paul did not look too good; he was ashen. His face was pained with anguish; I simply couldn't bear it.

"Paul, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Karen, please do what Suzy tells you, okay?"

My mind remembers bits and pieces from that point: a questioning police officer; something about a car running three red lights; a man with a gurney; a hard and uncomfortable collar being secured to my already pained neck; Suzy yelling, "...eight months pregnant...should NOT lay flat on back!" I do not remember being carried into the ambulance, but the curly-headed man in its back half was very nice.

Calming, he had an incredibly soothing voice. Though I cannot recall his face, he held my hand and told me everything would be all right. Asking the same questions, over and over again, he received the same repeated answers. I finally realized what he was doing. I told him, "My brain's fine; there's nothing wrong with my brain." I wanted to know about my baby, and about Paul. How were they?

Throughout the endless ride, I thought only for them: how much Paul and I wanted this baby, how long we tried to have her, the tests that continually showed nothing wrong with us, and then the tests that continually showed how healthy she was. I remembered the clearly detailed, yet beautifully moving ultrasound pictures of her beating heart. Was it beating still?

I recalled words stated so often while trying to conceive, "I would give anything to have a baby," then the words I so excitedly stated, "We're going to have a baby!" I pictured Paul in church, crying in torment to the preacher.

"How can others throw their babies into dumpsters when we want one so badly?" and the tears of joy upon his face when he read the note I insisted the doctor's nurse write for him, "Yes, Mr. Water, your wife is pregnant!"

I also recalled why we chose not to adopt. I could still see their crying little faces, the children blasted all over the news, each one in succession: a two-year-old baby girl, a four-year-old boy, even a six-year old! They were removed from the only family they ever knew in the world: their adoptive parents -- only to be returned to strangers: the biological parents who had given them up at birth and now wanted them back. NO, our precious daughter just had to be all right. But, she was not kicking.

Why wasn't she kicking?

Paul rode up front with the driver of the ambulance. Having made the decision to be examined later, he insisted that I be taken care of first. Even with the pain I knew he was feeling, this one action of his instilled knowledge within me: at least he was going to be all right. No matter what was wrong with him, we could deal with it later, no matter what. I finally realized that I could concentrate all my present concern toward my child, toward my precious Christine; I believe it was at that very moment....

She started kicking. The feeling of her moving inside of me again was the sweetest song I had ever known or felt. I knew, right then and there, that I would have the strength to handle whatever might come our way.

At the hospital, Paul again refused inspection until he knew that his wife and unborn baby were going to be all right. When we proved fine to him through x-rays, heart monitors, blood pressure checks and my smiling face, only then would he allow himself to be examined. They found no reason for his pain. That would prove to require more time and patience.

The day of Christine's birth was the most glorious day of our lives. She was absolutely beautiful -- all eight pounds and thirteen ounces of her. To give life - a life that is a part of you - is an indescribable joy. Better yet, she was born "perfectly healthy". A tech stated she had "everything in place" and that "she scored 4 points out of 5, which is wonderful" on some test beyond my comprehension. Compared to the events of the previous month, it was a relatively pain-free day. But it did not matter; none of it mattered right now.

She was here.

Throughout his own physical discomfort, Paul was right by my side -- when I birthed Christine and when we returned home. He rocked her for five straight hours in a chair that had to be quite painful for him (although he never admitted it) just so I could catch up on much needed sleep. Fearful of the newborn stage, I received a lion's share of help with bathing, rocking, crying, and diaper changes.

Since the accident in late August, and Christine's birth in late September, Paul would need many more exams until his problem was finally discovered: his constant leg pain stemmed from a ruptured disc in his low back. His continuous torture was relieved surgically in late October; however, a left-leg nerve would prove too damaged -- he must now live with permanent and near-total numbness of that leg. Thankful he was no longer wracked with pain, I was now right by his side, taking care of him and our newborn during his long rehabilitation. We soon discovered how much our lives had changed. Life, it would seem, had left us with yet another choice.

What should we do; focus on the things that we do not have, and on what we will not be able to do? Forget the ballroom dancing. Never mind that future hike down into the Grand Canyon. No motorcycle. No giving piggie-back rides to his daughter.... Or should we focus on the things that are attributable to the wonderful responsibility that God has bestowed upon us?

Cooing. Nursing. Giggling. Cuddles. First steps. Photographs. Merry go-rounds. Birthday parties. Zoos. Pony rides. Puzzles. Christmas presents. Family hugs. Singing. Dancing. Watching her go to school for the first time. Just...watching her grow.

As for me, I choose the latter.

~Karen
04/30/2004
 

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