The prayer.

No one was anymore excited about my pregnancy. 

She wanted a billboard hired while I was still blushing and secretive. 

I was scared from the get go. 

She knew I was worried.

She knew I understood the genetics. 

Still, she made it all very exciting and positive. 

For me.

Not once did I see a shadow of doubt cross her face. 

 

My internal, silent conflict;

have a baby as sick as hers or have a healthy baby who lives, while hers dies. 

It was overwhelming initially.

 

As I watched her babe sleep...my heart contracted. 

I rubbed my unborn child as my thoughts swirled. 

I was torn.

I was overwhelmed.

 

 

How could I love this life inside of me as much as I loved her  baby. 

 

She was sound asleep...post-op, from an orthopedic surgery. 

The surgery went well, but, the recovery was going to long and hard. 

This babe had to deal with so much.

 

I rubbed my unborn child as my thoughts continued to swirl.

 

No baby should have to be in this place. 

No baby should have to feel pain.

No baby should have to live this way.

 

I rubbed my unborn child...

The tears began to flow.

 

I started to pray.

I am not sure I had ever really prayed before, but, I prayed that day. 

 

I prayed for my unborn child to be blessed with health. 

I prayed the geneticist wouldn’t find a common gene. 

I prayed my child would not be her child. 

I prayed my weakness was understood. 

 

I knew I didn’t have the strength she did. 

 

It was torturous...

I was praying my child not be the child I could see in front of me...

the child I loved as if she were my own,

the child who may not leave this hospital. 

 

I was overcome with guilt and sorrow.

 

I never told her....not once.