Then something happened that really changed my perspective for the good—the phone rang. Our dearest friends were calling to tell us she had gotten some bad news from her ob-gyn that same afternoon—she was in the same stage of pregnancy as I was—and she was experiencing some complications. We cried and prayed with them and for them, and as I hung up the phone I began to realize what an amazing gift of life was moving inside me.
As I drove to work the next morning I braced myself for the impending question, “Did you find out what it is?” And immediately I knew the answer: Yes, I do know what it is. It is a gift. It is life. It is a priceless treasure. It is healthy; it is whole. It is another chance. It is laughter; it is joy. It is part of me. It is my son.
Kelli S. Jones
My Unborn Baby Saved My Life
My husband and I were thrilled when I finally got pregnant after a year of trying. The winter’s first snow covered our rhododendron bushes like a pure, downy baby’s blanket. As I gazed out my bedroom window, I wondered if the baby growing inside me would love to make snow angels and watch crystallized flakes melt on his or her little mittens.
I was thirty-one, in the fifth month of my first pregnancy, feeling energetic and alive. Steve and I couldn’t wait to be parents. The fertility drug I took had worked. We believed things were finally going our way.
I didn’t, however, have time to daydream about the baby and go for a leisurely walk in the snow. As a television reporter for the CBS affiliate in Portland, Oregon, snow meant one thing to me: standing knee-deep in a drift with wet flakes blowing in my face as I warned viewers not to drive.
It happened as I dressed for work. Without warning, a sharp pain shot through my abdomen. I doubled over, then curled into a ball on the bed.
I managed to call Steve, who was already at work. “You’ve got to come home now,” I gasped. “Something’s really wrong with me.” He immediately headed out into the gridlock rush hour traffic to get home.
As the pain continued to come in waves, I called my ob-gyn’s office. “I’m in a lot of pain,” I told the nurse, crying so hard by now that it was difficult to speak. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose the baby!”
“Take deep breaths and try to relax,” the nurse said. “You need to come in so we can examine you. How soon can you be here?”
An hour later my husband and I were in the examining room with an ob-gyn, a radiologist and an ultrasound technician. The doctor and the radiologist watched intently, their faces revealing nothing as the ultrasound technician helped us make sense of the hazy black-and-white images. There were plenty of things to see: heart valves pumping away and a beautiful facial profile right down to the little button nose. Our baby looked perfect to us.
When the procedure was over, the doctors and technician left the room and conferred. Then the ob-gyn came back in the room. “Well, it looks like we’ve got a mass,” he told us. “Let me show it to you.”
He pointed out a dark spot on the screen that the technician had measured but not described to us. It was, he told us, a tumor the size of a small grapefruit on my right ovary. Because it had grown quickly—there’d been no sign of it two and a half months earlier when I’d had a thorough ultrasound of the pelvic region—the doctors considered it very threatening. In fact, the doctor recommended surgery that day.
Steve and I were numb, then terrified. And we had many questions: Would a general anesthetic harm the baby? I’d given up my occasional glass of white wine and my morning cappuccino; surgery meant all types of drugs going through my veins. Still, the doctor assured us that a limited amount of anesthetic would not harm our baby’s development. And he told us that if a woman must have surgery while pregnant, the fifth month was one of the best times. Earlier surgery carries a greater risk of miscarriage, and later surgery could trigger premature labor.
How would the doctor remove the tumor without disturbing the baby? He explained that he would make a vertical incision down the center of my stomach, gently move the baby aside and cut out the tumor.
I called my longtime gynecologist for a consultation, and I discussed the matter with my husband and parents. We all agreed that I had no other choice than to go ahead with the operation.
Four doctors were in the operating room for the procedure. The surgical team removed the tumor and, with it, my right ovary. The tissue was immediately sent to the lab for analysis.
When the results came back from the lab, one of the doctors left the operating room to give my family the diagnosis. “Well, the news is not good,” he said. “The baby is fine and made it through the surgery very well, but the tumor we took out of Elisa was malignant. She has ovarian cancer.”
They gave me the news when I woke up: “You have cancer.” Those were the worst words I’d ever heard. As a reporter, I’ve interviewed so many desperate people in horrible situations that hearing I had cancer felt surreal, like a tragic news story that was happening to someone else.
Now there were serious decisions to make. If the cancer had spread and I needed radiation or chemotherapy, I might be able to carry the baby until seven months, the doctor said, when it would be able to live on its own, and then start treatment after I delivered. But if the cancer was aggressive, I might have to have chemotherapy right away. During surgery the medical team gathered a number of tissue samples from other organs, which were then sent to the lab for analysis to see if the cancer had spread. We would have to wait several days for those results.
A nurse hooked up a fetal monitor to my stomach, and I could hear my baby’s quick heartbeat. It was like rhythmic music swirling in my head. I desperately hoped to continue carrying this baby.
Groggy from the pain medication, I fell asleep. When I awoke in the middle of the night, I saw Steve hunched over in a chair beside me, fast asleep. I felt so much love for him. We’d believed that with our infertility ordeal behind us, we were finally on our way to having a family. Now, during this one horrible day, he’d been told his wife had cancer and that his baby’s life was in jeopardy. Still, he did his best to cheer and support me, and he stayed with me every night for the four nights I was in the hospital.
I talked a lot with Steve about my fears. When you hear you have cancer, all of a sudden you picture yourself bald from chemotherapy, skinny and frail, lying in a hospital bed. I kept telling myself that cancer is not necessarily a death sentence, and many people beat it. “It’s just not my time to die yet,” I told Steve. “I have so much more to do. Mostly, I just want to be a mother.”
The next few days were the longest of my life. When my doctor appeared on his evening rounds on the third day, he announced the news we’d all prayed for: “Your cancer was confined to the right ovary. It was completely encapsulated.
“That means,” he continued, “that when we removed the cancerous ovary, we took out every trace of the disease. You won’t need any further treatment.” He was 95 percent sure I was cured of the cancer, he said, and the odds don’t get much better than that. Barring other complications, he said I should be able to deliver a healthy baby right on schedule.
Just as the joyful news started to sink in, my doctor told me something amazing.
“Your baby probably saved your life.” He explained that I was only able to feel the abdominal pain that alerted us to the cancer because my growing uterus was pressing against the tumor. Had I not been pregnant, I might not have had any signs of the cancer until the tumor was very large and the disease much more advanced.
Ovarian cancer is one of the most deadly forms of the disease. According to the American Cancer Society, each year 26,700 women find out they have ovarian cancer, but only 44 percent of them live more than five years after the diagnosis. That’s because it so often goes undetected: Usually there are no obvious symptoms until a woman’s abdomen becomes enlarged, and at that point it’s often too late. To catch the disease early, women need a thorough physical examination by a gynecologist and possibly an ultrasound of their reproductive organs to rule out any
suspected problems. Even then, my doctor explained, catching the disease is a matter of luck. After all, my tumor hadn’t been visible during my ultrasound ten weeks earlier.
Overwhelmed with relief, I smiled and wiped my eyes, hugging everyone in sight.
Later, when my family went to the hospital cafeteria to grab a bite, I walked alone to the maternity ward to see the brand-new babies. Up until then, I had avoided the place. I didn’t want to see those tiny faces for fear I might never be able to deliver my baby there. Now, standing in my robe and slippers, I peered through the glass at the row of sleeping newborns. I stood with one hand on my stomach and wept.
I eventually returned to my job as a television reporter. Viewers saw me get a little rounder each day. Soon the snow melted in the mountains, and daffodils started shooting up through the ground. I was ready to become a mother.
Four months after my surgery, I delivered a healthy nine-pound baby girl. We named her Mariel, which means “wished-for child.” She has big, blue inquisitive eyes, and maybe someday she’ll be a reporter like her mom.
I call Mariel my little angel. I know all mothers adore their infants, but how many can say, “I owe my life to my baby”?
Elisa Kayser Klein
A Gift of Love
There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer.
Emmet Fox
Two years after an ectopic pregnancy and a bleak diagnosis for any chance of conceiving, my husband and I decided to adopt a baby. Always surrounded by family with children in abundance, we realized that it didn’t matter how our baby arrived in this world. We just knew that our lives would not be complete without children to share the love we had to offer. Once the decision was made, we acted upon it immediately and registered with several adoption agencies. Unfortunately, the agencies offered little hope, and we knew in our hearts that our only real chance of adopting a baby would be through independent adoption.
We retained an adoption attorney and, following his advice, began placing ads in newspapers throughout the state. We set up a separate telephone line with an answering machine, then waited. At first, we had little response, but after a few weeks of consistent advertising, we began to receive calls. Our lawyer had given us a list of questions we could politely ask, which turned out to be extremely helpful since I was so nervous whenever the phone rang that I could barely remember my name, let alone ask anything meaningful. Throughout the next several months, I waded through obscene calls, pranksters and a few slim prospects, never getting over the heart palpitations and trembling that each phone call evoked. Eventually, I spoke with Julia.
Julia was four months pregnant, unwed, young and poor. She invited us to her house in a nearby town, and we gratefully accepted the invitation. As I walked up her rickety front steps, I remember taking a deep breath and thinking that my whole future depended on these next few moments. When she answered the door, I almost cried. She was so beautiful. Long, dirty-blonde hair framed her face, blue eyes sparkled with curiosity, and I could just make out the slightest rise in her stomach. We met both her mother and grandmother, and as three generations of women grilled us about our principles and beliefs, I silently prayed that we would be found worthy of their precious gift.
After three interminably long hours, we were hugged at the door as we departed. I was so elated on the trip home that I couldn’t stop jabbering. “Did you see her tiny nose?” I asked my husband, who immediately laughed since our own rather large noses were almost literally a bone of contention. Over the next few months, with our attorney as mediator, we helped Julia with expenses related to her pregnancy. We paid for her doctor checkups and maternity clothes, and I had nightly conversations with Julia about her health and welfare. I felt as if she were my sister, feeling bonded in a way that was nurturing for both of us. Which was why it was so incredibly devastating when in her eighth month, Julia decided to keep her baby. The loss was as profound as my ectopic pregnancy had been; perhaps even worse because I was much further along in this pregnancy. I took to my bed for the next three days, barely able to eat, crying constantly, unwilling to speak with anyone but my husband. I was in mourning, and I desperately needed to grieve.
As difficult as it was, I continued to place ads, watching the months drag by with no response and little hope of my dream ever being fulfilled. It was two weeks after Christmas when my lawyer called me at work to ask if I could leave within the hour to go upstate and meet with a woman who had given birth to a baby two weeks before. Aurea was from the Philippines, unwed and visiting with family friends. She needed to go home, but there was no way she could take her baby with her. Being an unwed mother was a disgrace in her country, and she would be unable to provide for her child by herself. She had answered the ad of another couple who were clients of my lawyer and who, as Orthodox Jews, could not adopt a Filipino baby. Since Aurea had made the initial contact with my lawyer, it was completely legal for him to notify me of Aurea and her child. Within two hours, my husband and I had met shy, sweet Aurea and her beautiful baby boy. When she held him out to me, our eyes met, and I saw hope mingled with pain, the smile on her face only there to offer me support. I held him close, smelling his precious baby smell, not wanting to appear too aggressive, yet barely able to suppress my excitement. We stayed for an hour, communication shaky at best. When we left, it was agreed that Aurea would place her baby with us. She just needed a little more time to say good-bye to him.
The next week was a living nightmare. We searched our souls, desperately trying to confirm that we could handle loving and raising a racially different child. The loving part was no problem, but we weren’t foolish enough to think that raising him would be simple. We didn’t care. The adage, “love can conquer all,” was to be our future motto. During the same week, Aurea had changed her mind. Not about us; she simply didn’t want to part with her son, and who could blame her? I felt differently this time. I experienced no bitterness or anger. I understood.
But by the end of the week, she told my lawyer to have us come. It was snowing that day. A storm was predicted, but nothing would stop us. When we arrived, Aurea had dressed her baby in his finest clothes. She handed my husband a plastic bag filled with the articles she had acquired for her child over the past three weeks. She placed the baby in my arms and hugged me close, whispering in my ear, “Please, take care of my baby.” “Always,” I whispered back, sobbing as I left her crying in the kitchen and walked to my car. My husband, tears streaming down his face, backed out of the driveway. We headed home, all three of us, our hearts filled with love and gratitude, mingled with sorrow for Aurea’s pain.
We never changed our son’s first name. We felt it was the best gift we could give both him and Aurea. He is now twelve years old, and Aurea’s act of kindness lives on daily in our hearts and souls.
Phyllis DeMarco
To My Child
Children are the purpose of life. We were once children and someone took care of us. Now it is our turn to care.
Cree Elder
I can feel you eagerly kick and move side to side. I cannot see you or even know your thoughts. When I go to sleep, walk around or when I wake you are there. You must wonder why this capsule you are in has so much turbulence. It must sound like a rainstorm to you when the beads of water from the shower are pounding on my belly.
I do know that you are aware of my emotions. When I am calm, you too seem calm. When I am crying or am terribly fatigued from stress, your kicks and ungraceful movements seem stronger than ever. It is as if you’re saying, “Come on, Mom, hang in there, because if you don’t, I can’t.”
To be very honest, I did not know that you were going to happen; you surprised me. However, you are a very loved and accepted person by me, and many other people. I guess you are used to my voice by now. They tell me that you can hear things in your little gestation capsule. Can you? You haven’t heard your father’s voice. Do you wonder why? Just know that he also loves you.
When I awoke this morning I lay
there with my tummy bare and watched you push my stomach up with your feet. I wish I could have shared this unforgettable experience with someone. God was smiling down at you; remember he creates no accidents. My desire to have conceived you in the right marriage situation is very strong, yet that makes you no less of a person, nor does it take from the incredible love and bond I have with you.
I apologize if some of the foods I eat for both of us aren’t what you like. If I knew what your favorite food was, I swear that I would eat it. Oh yes, and my music: I know you must hear it. I love music as I’m sure you already are aware. Are you a Bing Crosby fan or are you a rhythm-and-blues baby?
I know that after you are born and I hold you and nurse you, I will be even more in love. When I see that you resemble myself, my parents or even your father, that bond will be intensified. That is why when I hand you to your new parents, it will without a doubt be the most difficult and painful thing I’ll ever have to do. I know that in my head and in God’s eyes it is the right thing to do for you. If I kept you for my own it would be selfish. Everything I do, I am doing because I love you with all my heart.
I will always be your birth mother and you will always be my biological child, although I may never see you again. And if I did, I would never reject you. I love you.