Belabored Chapter 15: Bonny

“So the Lord said to [Moses],‘Who has made man’s mouth? 

Or who makes the mute, the deaf, the seeing, or the blind? Have not I, the Lord?’”

 Exodus 4:11, the Bible

            “Hi, Emma, I’m so glad to see you! It’s been a while. How are you feeling?” I ask when Emma Coughlin shows up in at my office. In truth, I hadn’t expected to see her again. I’ve been doing this work long enough to know when a woman wants out, and this one definitely wants out. She doesn’t have to say the words to me. I can read it in her face, hear it in what she’s not saying. My only hope is the fact that her husband, Tom, seems committed to raising this child, come what may.

“Oh, OK, I guess,” she answers flatly. She looks down at her hands, fumbling with her wedding ring.

            Actually, I rarely counsel expectant moms anymore. My job involves a lot of fundraising and paper work. I do a lot of behind the scenes stuff because we are, in fact, a business, and we do have a bottom line. I also spend a fair amount of time commuting to my job, which is in the city. Most of our clients eke by under the poverty line and have little education to better their circumstances. That’s one of the reasons they consider abortion. They see no future for themselves, let alone their children.

 It astonished me to learn that quite a few churches in our vicinity actually support these moms aborting rather than choosing adoption for babies they feel they can’t raise. Apparently, there’s less of a stigma associated with killing one’s child than giving it a chance to live in someone else’s home. Good thing no one ever told Moses’s mother that, or she might have opted to hold on to her son even though that would’ve meant being slaughtered by Pharaoh’s henchmen. Then who would have led the Jews out of Egypt?

            Tanya’s right; I do preach too much.

            In any event, sheer luck brought the Coughlins into my path for counseling. No, that’s not accurate. I don’t believe in luck any more than I believe in the tooth fairy (although if Jessica asks, I do believe in that gossamer-winged sprite). I think it was a divine appointment. They came in the day before Thanksgiving. Emma said she passes our building on the way to her office, and thought since she had a short day at work because of the holiday, she’d drop in. I later learned her priest put in a good word for us, too. Since she and Tom had met for lunch that day, they came in together.

            I was hoping for a short day myself, as I had stuffing to make, a table to set, side dishes to start, and a three-year-old who wasn’t going to make any of that easy. I had sent most of my small staff home early to get a jump on their holiday preparations, so it fell either to me or the wallpaper to welcome these folks. I said a quick prayer asking the Lord to put more time in my day (I swear He’s done just that on some crazy mornings when I couldn’t get out the door) and dove into the trenches with Emma and Tom.

            They returned once after that, and I haven’t seen them since. Frankly, I feared the worst, but seeing Emma today gives me hope. Her belly looks fuller, but her face, sadder.

Like I said, I’m really not a counselor. But I’m a veteran of unplanned pregnancy, and well acquainted with fear.

I wait patiently for Emma to speak. This is the first time she’s come in without Tom, and I’m thinking she might feel freer to say what’s on her heart if I don’t press her. I’ve learned there can be great value in silence.

After a few minutes, tears start to fall. She angrily brushes them away and apologizes.

“Emma, would it be alright if I gave you a hug?” I ask gingerly.

She hesitates, then nods. I hold her for what feels like a long time, then sit back down in my chair.

I decide to risk it.

“Wanna tell me what’s happening?” I venture.

More tears.

“The baby has spina bifida. Well, you knew that, right? Well, we were hoping they’d be able to do surgery in utero, but that’s not gonna be an option. Certain things have to be – oh, it doesn’t matter, you don’t need the details, just take my word for it, they can’t do it. They won’t do it. So that means he’s gonna have hydrocephalus, too – do you know what that is? In the old days, they called it ‘water on the brain.’ So they’re gonna have to put a shunt in his brain. That’s a tube that drains off the extra fluid. Oh, and the shunts don’t last forever, so he gets to have more surgeries when that happens.

“Bottom line, we’re gonna be stuck with, I mean, we’re gonna have a kid that’ll walk temporarily if at all, need tons of surgeries, have to have catheters and enemas all the time ’cause his plumbing won’t work –”

“Excuse me, Emma. I notice you keep saying 'he' and 'his.' Does this mean you’ve found out your baby is a boy? Oh, sorry, I shouldn't have interrupted.”

“No, that’s OK. Yeah. Yeah, it’s a boy. My little guy, Kyle – he’s been calling him Matthew, so I guess that’s his name. Do you have any more tissues?”

“Here,” I say, handing her the box. “You can hold on to it. There’s plenty more where that came from! Please, go on.”

“Thanks,” she sniffs. “Well, my husband, Tom – you met him – he’s being the Rock of Gibraltar. Says everything’s gonna work out. He has it in his head that we’re gonna train our two older boys to come alongside us and help with their brother, that we’ll all be this big, happy family of overcomers, and then when we’re too old to take care of this kid, our older boys are just gonna swoop in and take our place. Can you believe that?”

“Hmmm,” I begin. Emma jumps in while I’m pondering my response.

“Tell me, Bonny, do you think that’s fair? Or even realistic? Seriously?”

I pray, Lord, give me wisdom. I have no idea what this mother wants to hear, and even less what God wants me to say.

            “I don’t know,” I say finally. “I don’t know your boys – they’re very young, aren’t they?”

            She nods.

“Yeah. Four and two. Well, the older one’s almost five. But I don’t know how they’ll turn out, whether they’ll want to care for a disabled brother or not. The other thing is –” Emma breaks off momentarily, then continues, “The other thing is, I don’t want to care for a disabled baby! I don’t want my whole life turned upside down by a child I never asked for in the first place! When I did accept that I was pregnant again, I wanted a girl! Doesn’t anybody care what I want?!”

Her outburst startles me, but I know it’s important to remain calm. I study my aching fingers and wait for her to continue. She looks at me expectantly.

Tag. I guess I’m “It.”

“Emma, you came here for a reason. Why, do you think?”

She blows her nose and swears.

“I have no idea, Bonny! I had nothing else to do on my lunch break – God knows, I can barely eat these days – so I figured I’d stop in, I guess. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No offense taken, Em. Go on.”

She blows her nose and continues.

“Well, we’ve been doing our homework, you know, we got in touch with some of the agencies you sent us to last time. Remember you gave us that list?”

I nod.

“Well, I found this other group online. Prenatal Partners, they’re called. Oh, and then I contacted the Spina Bifida Association, too. They have a Facebook page for parents of spina bifida kids, and one thing led to another, and we got to talk to this woman who was born with it, and that was really helpful. The woman’s name is Lisa Jane – she told us to call her L.J. – and when I talked to her I felt sort of, I dunno, stronger somehow. Like, because she’s been living with it all these years, and she’s really amazing, maybe our baby would grow up to be amazing, too. Y’know?”

I nod.

“She didn’t pull any punches, either. Told us she had tons of surgeries like our guy will have to have. Even told us she maxxed out her insurance a couple of times! Said her parents had to get a lawyer to make her school district get on board with helping her. Like, the school didn’t wanna put in a railing outside so she wouldn’t fall going down the steps on her crutches! Stupid stuff like that. Oh, yeah, and she said she gets extra hot because her body’s thermostat doesn’t work right, and the school would complain ’cause she had to wear tank tops, like as if that’s the worst thing a girl can wear these days, and –”  

Emma’s voice trails off. I wait.

“Here’s the thing. This woman, she has the best outlook. And she’s so smart. Got through college – well, it took her a long time, but still – she just never gave up on herself and never quit. I’m trying to remember how she put it. It was something like, ‘Some people think my life is all misery and woe, like an Edgar Allan Poe story.’ But she said she doesn’t see it that way. She figures everybody has bad moments, not just disabled people.”

Another pause. I leave the lull alone.

“She did admit she’s having trouble finding a job. Like I said, she graduated college, but y’know, it’s hard for most people to get jobs these days, let alone someone with a disability. She’s pretty plucky, though, said she’s not giving up. She said something really inspiring, too. I’m trying to remember how she put it. Something like, ‘God didn’t bring me through all my surgeries and help me get through college so I could sit around and complain about how tough the job market is!’”

I nod and smile.

“She gives a lot of credit to her parents. Apparently, she has this really awesome family where everybody helps out, not just her mom and dad. She has, I don’t know, two or three brothers and I think a sister. They know someday she may need to live with them – the parents are pretty open with the rest of the kids – and they’re working on a plan where they’ll help her in shifts, sort of. The parents built an addition onto the house where everything’s handicapped accessible, so she can do a lot more for herself. She’ll still have to get aides from the outside and all, but she’s just OK about the whole thing. Doesn’t feel sorry for herself at all. Very practical, really.”

I nod. Seems my best sentences in this conversation are unspoken.

“The best thing, though, and I think this is what really got Tom – the best thing she said was along the lines of, why rule out a person’s potential based on a possible prognosis? I mean, her parents knew before she was born that she was gonna have problems. Just like us with Matt. But they just figured, what with the way technology’s always changing and all, I guess they figured, why not give her a shot?”

At this point, Emma looks at me as if she expects a response. Again I pray. Then, right in the middle of this intense conversation, the Lord zaps me with a revelation.

Maybe if I pray before talking to Tanya, things will go better.

I compartmentalize that information into the maternal section of my brain and mentally shift back to professional mode.

“So all this sounds very encouraging, Em. That’s wonderful! I’m proud of you for doing all that research.”

Ouch! Why did I say that? This is a grown woman I’m talking to, not one of my daughters. Guess I haven't completely shifted gears after all. Fearing I’m coming off condescending, I try another approach.

“So it seems like you’re pretty upset today, though. You were very honest a little while ago about not wanting to raise Matthew. Do you wanna talk about that?”

Her eyes fill up again.

“Well, just because L.J.’s family has all the money in the world to remodel their house and all, Tom and I don’t have that kind of money! We don’t have thousands of dollars to be putting in wheelchair ramps and buying special vans and taking time off from work to run this kid to doctor appointments all the time! I have a fulltime job and so does Tom! Our kids are in day care as it is! What day care is gonna jump at the chance to take on Matthew? This whole thing is just impossible! I don’t know how to do spina bifida, and I’m pretty sure I don’t wanna learn! Oh, God, why can’t I do this?! Some great mother, not wanting to raise her own child!”

She breaks into heaving sobs. Her already running mascara slides down her cheeks in an ashen trickle. She wipes her eyes with an overused tissue and takes a deep breath.

Lord, what do I say now?

If she’s expecting me to join her in beating herself up, she’ll have a long wait. I know firsthand the kind of doubts mothers feel when confronted with an unplanned pregnancy. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like when you find out, on top of that, your child will never do all that typically abled kids do, and may not even live very long.

I take a gentle tone and wade in.

“Emma, you are where you are. No amount of self-flagellation is gonna change where you are. The important thing is you’re researching and moving forward. What’s the next step, do you think?”

She smiles weakly.

“I don’t know, Bonny. I mean, they have more tests lined up. I swear, if they ultrasound me one more time, my bladder’s gonna release Lake George all over that office! And those MRI’s, I feel like I’m in a coffin. Can’t stand ’em. I’ve used up all my personal time from work, don’t know if they’ll let me use sick time for all these visits. Guess I could ask HR. Thing is, it’s pretty hard to stay on top of things at work with all this going on. And the boys, Kyle and Kevin, my guys, they’re great, but I’m so wrapped up in my, I don’t know, pain, I guess, that I feel like I’m not there for them. Tom’s being an absolute saint and I almost want to kill him for that. How can he accept this so easily? Why isn’t he furious with me?!”

More crying. I get up and put my arms around her. Professionalism be hanged, this girl needs some TLC.

“Oh, Honey, how could he be furious at you? You’re –”

“No, you don’t understand, I want him to be furious with me, not at me! We should team up in our fury! We have every right to be furious! Why can’t he see that?!”

Suddenly, she laughs at herself, and I take a chance that it’s OK for me to laugh with her. Before I know it, we’re hugging and I’m telling her I don’t have all the answers, but I’ll be there for her.

She smiles and says she’d better clean her face and go back to work. I walk her to the door and ask if it would be OK for me to call her to see how she’s doing. She says she’d appreciate that and gives me her cell number. We hug once more and say goodbye. 

I think about my own two girls with their working limbs and unshunted heads, and breathe a prayer of thanks.