The first time I heard "
St. Patrick's Breastplate," I was transfixed, and it remains my favorite hymn. If someone asked me why, I would be loath to pick apart the reasons. I don't even know if I could. It resonates somewhere deep within me where logic is secondary and intuition moves. It beautifully and powerfully speaks both the mystery and the security of our faith-- both the mystery of our God and right confidence in Him.
As many of you know, I'm recovering from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. The rupture occurred because I chose to wait until the baby died before undergoing life-saving surgery. I'm grateful for the fervent prayers on my behalf both from those who understand this decision and those for whom my decision brought great distress. Amid the commotion and noise of providers attending to me as I hemorrhaged, I clearly remember repeating, "Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy." Our God did have mercy; praise His name.
This is the second time in my life a baby has grown next to my left fallopian tube. Ectopic pregnancies occur in about every 1 in 80 pregnancies. By rights, John and I should have 160 children, but we only made it to 11 on earth before another baby settled in the same place, even though there was no residual scarring or impediment from the first pregnancy to explain it. It took me two years to write about my experience the first time around. This time, not even 2 days have passed, and here I am writing about it. I never imagined when I wrote 17 years ago, "If we were in this situation again, nothing would change," that we would actually ever be in this situation again. If I had known at that point, I would have been afraid to face it, even though in the last week, I felt not the smallest hint of fear. God seems to pour out His mercy only when one has the most acute need for it.
I just got home last night and haven't had time to process the events of the last few days, but nonetheless I feel a burden to write this, mostly to those who remain unsettled about my decision. This post is unequivocally not a statement on what I believe every woman in this morally difficult situation should do; it's an attempt to store some of what the last few days have meant for me and my family. I want to communicate part of an inexplicable mystery-- the surety that surrounded me and God's peace that suffused every mote of my experience. I'm also afraid that if I wait longer, the immediacy of God's great goodness will be diluted by the everyday, and I'll begin to take it for granted.
I don't know quite what I'm going to write. This is not a reasoned defense. In fact, I don't want it to be a defense at all. Those of you who struggled most with my decision were kind enough to pray for me and not argue with me, so I thankfully don't have a list of points to defend. Instead, here are isolated bits of information from the last week, which I experienced as intimately connected parts of a homogeneous whole. Even though I don't know how this will be anything other than a jumbled compilation of moments, may God use it to give a measure of peace to those of you who were and are most troubled by my decision.
Speaking the value of my baby's "doomed" life during my first ectopic pregnancy 19 years ago was often traumatic, and I felt at times like a wounded animal hunting for a hollow log. This time, due to the circumstances of seeing new providers in a changing e.r., I had to explain the situation many more times-- multiple times to multiple providers. I felt no uncertainty and no fear, and it was a joy to boldly and lovingly speak truth. During my initial visit to the e.r. seeking confirmation of the ectopic pregnancy, some of my friends from church were taking part in a local pregnancy center's fundraising Walk for Life. I hadn't planned to take part in it because John had to work, and we currently have no functioning vehicle large enough for the rest of us. As I sat pleasantly chatting with the women checking me in and the friendly triage nurses, sharing my delight in my large family, the joy of children, and the love John and I share, I realized that God was using me to speak for life as my friends walked for it. The fact that I had eleven children and wasn't even complaining about them was a point of wonder for one nurse, especially. 😂
After the ultrasound confirmed the baby's location, I was glad John was with me for support as we went to speak to the doctors, grateful that he could step in and communicate for me if I was unable. Instead, I found myself speaking calmly and confidently about the Giver of Life and the Receiver of Life, confirming my knowledge of the physiological reality of the situation while at the same time standing for the value of my little one and my place in it all as a created being myself.
Before I continue, let me reiterate that John was just that- my steady support . After the ectopic pregnancy was confirmed, I revisited Aquinas's Doctrine of Double Effect, which is most often used as the moral defense for removing the baby to save the mother's life, and I asked John what his thoughts were. He was unable to speak and told me to act as I needed to act. He stood lovingly by me, but he did not influence my decision.
I read again about the principle of double effect from multiple sources not because I was uncertain, but to give a fair chance to those praying for me to choose surgery, for them to know that I was not choosing as I did out of ignorance or stubborn adherence to a simplistic view of things, but rather because I could do no other. My decision was not based on scriptures cobbled together but from a deep belief that the placement of my baby was no accident, that God's creation of my baby was deliberate and right, and that my baby's small reach of days brings glory to his or her Creator. I was unable to have any place in ending this God-given life, even as an unintended effect, even hours short of when God would take that baby to Himself. This is no defense. It is simply truth.
On Tuesday, I spoke to a new e.r. doctor while waiting for that day's ultrasound results. He was an older gentleman who chose his words with care and did his best to convince me that surgery was the higher moral choice. I tried to communicate with equal care in return. Several hours later, as I was hemorrhaging on an e.r. table, he was present and again tried to reason with me regarding the moral implications of waiting for the baby's death before proceeding with surgery. I never imagined I would be engaging in conversation of moral philosophy while rapidly losing blood, but to pull a line from St. Patrick's Breastplate, I felt "the word of God give me speech" in a situation where I could not choose to do so. After responding to him, I breathlessly apologized that I could not give consent for surgery until an ultrasound confirmed the baby's death. He said, "It is what it is," and left the room disappointed.
And that's just it.
It is what it is.
I can do no other.
In the last week, we have been upheld by the body of Christ and by the prayers of the saints, petitions from those earthly saints who love me, and, thanks to the Roman Catholic Christians who love me, prayers to the saints, as well. Even though my situation was small in some ways, God gathered His people from different corners of doctrine together in prayer, many of whom I do not know, cannot name, and will never meet outside of Heaven. In all of this, surrounded by prayer, I felt nothing but surety, utter confidence in God's right work, and overwhelming, undisturbed peace. This "perfect peace" was inexplicable. My complete confidence in God's care for me was an abrupt and unexpected gift. Without going into detail, I have felt cut off from His care for the last 18 months, pouring myself out like water in a barren season of separation, unable to trust that the Father's good will can feel again like a fruitful gift.
As soon as my baby's placement was confirmed, instead of anxiety, instead of uncertainty, instead of indecision, I felt peace and utter trust in the Father I have not felt able to trust in much smaller things for quite some time. Not once did this peace or confidence waver. My faith was seamless, and I assure you it was not due to piety. It was a free gift given to a little child, and this is the Mystery.
I was supposed to stay in the hospital for a day longer than I actually did. The morning after my surgery, I sat in the post-op room for a few hours before asking a nurse if there was a chance I could be discharged, and she said she'd check to see if the on-call ob. could come down and examine me. It was several hours more until he did so, and he arrived in an obvious rush, with laboring women several floors up waiting for his return.
He must have looked at my chart before coming in, though, because he immediately asked if I knew of St. Thérèse of Lisieux--"The Little Flower." Though I am not a Roman Catholic, I was familiar with her through conversations with my sister-in-law Sarah and John. As he gave me a perfunctory examination before signing the discharge papers, he said in heavily accented tones, "Her feast day is coming soon at the end of the month; she is a Doctor of the Church-- she is a spiritual friend of mine." He expressed sorrow that I had to go through this experience. Even in his hurry, his demeanor toward me was so gentle and caring, with an underlying compassionate understanding that could only come from a fellow Christian. We did not need to confirm our faith to each other-- mine was apparent to him from my place as a mother of eleven and the events leading to my surgery, and his was apparent to me just as easily. Fifteen minutes later, as we were waiting for the nurse to bring discharge paperwork, he poked his head through the curtain and said, "Here, I brought you this." It was a prayer card of The Little Flower, known for her "Little Way" and for her confident trust in God as loving Father. This small event spoke profoundly to me, as it was a tangible bridge between me and some I love who cannot see my decision as right.
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