Fear

I understand now. What I was asking about, when I asked about what to say to those who only focus on a 70% chance of a baby living.

I understand. Behind the numbers, the scenario's, the low dose aspirin, the serial ultrasounds, the plans, I am really holding out my hands and saying:

I am frightened.

I am frightened. Will you hold my hand?

Will you hold my hand and tell me that you will stay with me? Walk with me?

We have learned that there are going to be those who will not hold our hand. Who would not come close to such sadness and sorrow and fear. Those who would insulate themselves from us, hide behind their children, their faith, sunshine and roses. They would not walk through the valley of the shadow of death with us. They would be on the cliffs above, saying "that must really suck." And perhaps, they would not realize that the sub-context of our conversations about statistics is about fear.

And I believe that God will be with me. He will understand my fear, he sobs with me. His rod and his staff, they do guide me and comfort me. I know His Son understands the feeling of being forsaken. But I need others, too.

What I am asking, when I tell people about the risks is this:

Will you hold my hand. Will you acknowledge our fear? Will you understand that I am frightened? I am frightened of days of worry, of constant concern that pre-eclampsia is starting again. Will you understand that there is nothing that can be done? There is no fix, no magic bullet, no cure. There is only waiting. And fear. And the comfort provided by those who sit with us. Who pray with us. Who bear this burden, with us.

Will you understand that I am frightened that I will die? Will you understand that I am frightened that I will have to leave Mr. Spit behind? Will you understand that my greatest joy has been to be his wife, and that I do not want to leave him? Will you understand that I am concerned that my life will be reduced to a few lines in the newspaper? Will you understand that I am concerned about all I have left to do, to be?

Will you understand that I am afraid that my world will fall to pieces? That in another instant, my life will be shattered, again? And Mr. Spit and I will be left to cradle another lifeless infant? We will be left to plan another funeral, plant another tree. Pack up nursery furniture. Acknowledge, with the death of another child, that our plans are over. Will you understand my sorrow at never again feeling my abdomen swell, never feeling the secret communication that is a baby kick?

Will you understand that we will give up dreams for children? Will you understand that we will never have a first day of school, never send a child to university, never be at our child's wedding? Will you understand, as we participate in those things for your children, that we grieve our own? Will you be with us as we wash and dress a child for the first and last time, again? Will you hold our hand as we pray the prayers of baptism over an infant who will never take the vows confirmation?

Or, if things turn differently, will you be with us as we sit next to an isolette, willing bone of our bone, flesh of our flesh to just take another breath. And another? Will you understand our obsession with gaining grams of weight. In a long and hard journey through NICU, will you stay with us? Or will you forge on ahead? Will you celebrate the victory of a level 2 brain bleed, because it is not all that serious? Will you sit with us when the fear and the worry leave us breathless, and we do not think we can live another moment with our heart and soul breathing labouredly in an isolette, where we cannot keep it safe?

And if, if the worst happens, and our world shatters again? If we bury another child? If then, will you walk into that dark and sad place, and silently, slowly, gently, begin locating the pieces of our souls and hearts, and will you carefully stack them up? Will you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, will you hold us up, when we fall down? Will you sit with us when we cannot walk, and walk with us when we cannot run? Will you come and stay, and hold our hand? Will you sit and cry with us?

When you look at your own children, will you remember ours? Will you remember what was supposed to be? Will you understand that the sorrow of lost children is always with us? We are always aware of who is not here, that should be?

I am frightened. Behind statistics is fear.