Sometimes the universe makes me laugh.
On an early morning recently, I was rushing out the door, my head swarming with the to-do list that awaited me at the office. Because work has been particularly stressful lately, my shoulders feel constantly bent from worry. I stepped into the sun and chastised myself that my flowers needed watering. Later, I told myself. Opening the gate separating our courtyard from the carport, I noticed a “volunteer” vinca growing away from its cousins—shot up from a crack in the aggregate. “Here I am!” it seemed to say, and its unexpected position made me smile, made my shoulders ease a bit.
Sometimes the universe makes me cry.
I had known for weeks that my colleague was going through something health related. At the end of our meeting, I asked how she was. She proceeded to tell me her story: The latest round of IVF had resulted in pregnancy, but weeks later her joy turned to anguish when she discovered it was an ectopic pregnancy. Because of state laws outlawing mifepristone, the drug that when taken in conjunction with methotrexate, causes a termination quickly, this woman’s only course of action was a strong dose of methotrexate. In case you don’t realize: this is a chemo drug.
The course of treatment was delayed, as the healthcare providers jumped through additional testing and legal hoops to guard against jail time. Specific notes were put into my friend’s medical record so that, if investigated, she would be the one held criminally liable, not the providers. All the while, my colleague knew there was a ticking time bomb inside her. She and her husband prayed it would not rupture, prayed her fertility would be preserved, worried about the chemo drug’s effects on her body.
Sometimes the universe makes me angry.
“That’s not the end of the story,” she told me that day. She and her husband were leaving days later to take their children on a trip to Disneyworld. Each day the couple waited and worried and were instructed to go to a diagnostics laboratory in Florida to get a blood draw to confirm whether the abortion was complete.
The tech, assuming this was an elective abortion, treated my friend with contempt, asking if she had thought about what that child might have become.
Indeed, she had. That baby was deeply loved, prayed for, wanted.
When and where did our inhumanity to our fellow man start? At what point did we stop listening and start to prejudge and make assumptions? Is there no limit to the cruelty? How did we get here?
I despise the word abortion. It conjures up stereotypes of irresponsible teenage girls who make poor decisions. (Interestingly, the boys who participate are rarely mentioned, and certainly their bodies are not impacted). But the truth is that abortion is more often healthcare. It can be life-saving, as in the instance of my colleague, or merciful, like the almost full-term baby who has no brain and would live only a few agonizing hours.
The truth is that abortion is never a cause for celebration, and it is far too complex an issue for social media snippets and hateful rhetoric.
A few months ago, an acquaintance on Facebook posted that she got pregnant at 16 and made the choice to have the baby. I’m sure hers was a difficult road, and I respect her decision. Just as I respect my Jewish friend who follows the teachings of the Torah which says that life begins at breath. Just as I respect Hadley Duvall, the courageous young Kentucky woman who tells her story of sexual abuse at the hands of a relative which led to her becoming pregnant at age 12.
And just as I respect the intelligent, professional woman who sat across the desk from me and shared her journey of grief.
Years ago, pregnant with my third child in West Tennessee, I found my way to an ob/gyn who was a Pro-Life activist. In our first meeting, he told me quite casually of his pregnant patient, a mother of two, who had diabetes and high blood pressure, and whose fetus had the fatal condition of anencephaly: without parts of its brain and skull. Although specialists in Memphis and Nashville had recommended termination at six months, this ob/gyn was adamant the woman needed to carry the baby to term and hold it for its few hours on earth.
He obviously had never been a mother. I left and made an appointment elsewhere.
Sometimes the universe makes you pause to think.
When I refer to the universe, I’m speaking of God. I appreciate that not everyone reading this blog prays to my God or to any God at all. But, as for me, as a Christian, I believe that everything that touches my soul is a message from God. Flawed and fallen as I am, I need to listen.
Beyond unexpected laughter, beyond tears and anger and compassion, God has given me one more thing: a voice.
I will use it.
IN THE MIDDLE 