The Day We Met

by Dusti Bowling

  My mom turned the car into the parking lot of the doctor’s office. She was already beginning to slide as she pulled into a spot near the entrance. “Whoa,” she said. “Hopefully, this will be quick. We need to get home. I bet school was cancelled today.”

  I shrugged. Missing school, not missing school—I didn’t care.

  We walked toward the entrance, our boots crunching over large salt crystals not doing their job very well; I slipped as I got close to the doors, but my mom gripped me and kept me from going down.

  The waiting area of the doctor’s office was silent—no usual screaming babies and pregnant moms. We were the only ones in there.

  “This place is so quiet today,” my mom told the receptionist, as though she wouldn’t have noticed.

  “Most everybody canceled their appointments this morning,” she said. “I’m trying to cancel everyone else’s for this afternoon ‘cause we’re going to close early so we can get home too. This weather is terrible.”

  “But you didn’t cancel ours,” I said. “We didn’t even have an appointment and you called us to come in.”

  My mom and Laura both looked at me. “Well,” Laura said, “Dr. Levin wanted to see you today.” She walked around from her desk and through the doorway to the waiting room. “Come on back.” She motioned for us to follow her and led us back to Dr. Levin’s office for the third time.

  She knocked on the door and poked her head in. “Naomi and Lenna James are here,” she said to the other side of the door then opened it all the way. We walked in to face Dr. Levin, sitting behind his desk. I was getting tired of this scene.

  He smiled and rose to shake our hands, but I saw something behind that smile—something bad was coming and he knew it. “Lenna… Naomi.” He sat back down and motioned for us to do the same. We sat and waited. “Lenna,” he began. “We got the results from your amnio and your level two ultrasound.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  He frowned and looked down at some paperwork. “I’m sorry it’s not good news.”

  “Please just tell us,” my mom said in a shaky voice.

  Dr. Levin cleared his throat. “Lenna, your baby has a chromosomal disorder called Trisomy thirteen.”

  “Trisomy thirteen,” my mom repeated. “I’ve never heard of that. Is it serious?”

  I sat quietly, not knowing what to say or what questions to ask. I just listened to what Dr. Levin said.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s very serious. And you’ve probably never heard of it because it’s fairly rare. It only affects about one in ten thousand babies.”

  “One in ten thousand,” my mom echoed him again. “But Lenna is so young.”

  Dr. Levin looked at me. “It’s… unusual that someone so young would have a baby with Trisomy thirteen. It’s more likely to affect older moms.”

  “So this could be a mistake,” my mom said hopefully. “I mean, the amniocentesis could be wrong.”

  “No.” Dr. Levin rubbed his forehead. “The ultrasound revealed numerous birth defects consistent with a Trisomy thirteen diagnosis.” He picked up a piece of paper and cleared his throat. “The fetus has a small head, not consistent with his age—”

  “His?” I finally spoke. “It’s a boy?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Levin said, putting the paper down. “I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”

  I shook my head. My mom sniffled beside me.

  Dr. Levin continued reading down the list of birth defects. “The two hemispheres of the brain are fused, which is associated with the cleft palate the sonographer noticed on the first ultrasound. The cleft palate was confirmed and is also severe.” He cleared his throat again and continued. “The fetus is missing ribs, has an extra finger on both hands, abnormally small eyes, spinal defects… There are holes between the chambers of the heart…”

  This is where my mind drifted away from what Dr. Levin was saying. I stared down at my lap, pushing out the horrible things pouring out of his mouth. And yet, he just kept going. And going.

  He finally finished and put down the paper, sighing deeply. “I’m so sorry.”

  My mom grabbed a tissue from Dr. Levin’s desk and blew her nose into it. “So what can be done for the baby?”

  Dr. Levin rubbed his forehead again. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that can be done for this baby. I doubt he’ll live to full term. And if he does, I don’t think he’ll make it through the birth.”

  “What?” my mom exclaimed. “This is fatal?”

  “Naomi, this baby has full Trisomy thirteen. Ninety percent of these babies don’t live past one year of age. And I’m afraid Lenna’s case is severe.”

  My mom cried into her tissue while I continued staring at my lap. I felt dazed.

  “But what if the baby did survive?” my mom asked, the smallest glimmer of hope still present in her voice.

  “In the unlikely event the baby does survive the birth, the most the hospital would want to do is try to make the baby comfortable until he passes. Any other interventions would only serve to prolong the baby’s suffering and delay the inevitable by probably a very short amount of time… if any. I honestly don’t think this baby would survive any operation.”

  I could feel Dr. Levin’s eyes on me, but I didn’t look back. I had nothing to say. What was there to say?

  “Lenna,” he said. And then he drove it all home. “Your baby will be severely mentally retarded with severe heart defects, as well as facial deformities, spinal deformities, respiratory problems.” I felt his eyes burning holes into every part of me as he studied me, probably waiting for my reaction. “This baby’s condition is not compatible with life.”

  Not compatible with life.

  Not compatible with life.

  I kept repeating that phrase over and over in my mind until I finally said it out loud. “Not compatible with life,” I whispered.

  “I’m sorry,” Dr. Levin said again. “I know this is not easy news to take.”

  “Not compatible with life,” I repeated.

  “There’s nothing that can be done.”

  “Not compatible with life.” It was all I could say just then—four terrifying words, perfectly harmless when separate, devastating when spoken together. “Not compatible with life.”

  “Yes,” he said. He moved forward, and I looked up to face him. “Lenna, you have options.”

  “Options?” I asked.

  “I would understand if you wanted to terminate the pregnancy at this point.”

  “Terminate the pregnancy?” I still felt dazed but lucid enough to feel irritation that the abortion option was being pushed again. “But what if you’re wrong?” I asked, growing angry, the numbness melting away. “What if I terminated this pregnancy and you were wrong?”

  “I’m not wrong,” he said. “The tests aren’t wrong.”

  “I want a second opinion,” I blurted out. I nodded stubbornly to myself. “I want a second opinion.”

  He nodded. “I understand. I can recommend another doctor for you.”

  “No, that’s okay.” I stood to leave. “We’ll find our own.” I held out my hand to him. “Thank you for your services, Dr. Levin.”

  He shook my hand with a confused look. “Good luck, Lenna.”

  I left the room, my sniffling mom trailing behind me. Her weeping grew louder with every step until we reached the car, where she broke down into sobs that wracked her entire body, and for a moment, I thought she might fall to the icy ground.

  “Are you okay to drive?” I asked.

  She steadied herself against the car, took several shaky breaths, and wiped her eyes. “Yes, I can drive.” We got in and she started the car. “I just can’t believe it!” she wailed, throwing her head onto the steering wheel.

  I put my hand on her back, trying to calm her. I didn’t fully understand why I was so calm. Maybe it was shock. Or maybe it was that finally finding out what was wrong with the baby, no matter how bad it was, was a relief. Now I knew—I didn’t have to wonder anymore. I kne
w Dr. Levin was right. I didn’t need a second opinion, although I had demanded one. I had done that more out of anger and frustration than doubt.

  My mom picked her head up from the steering wheel and backed the car out of the parking spot. She intermittently cried the whole way home, but I was quiet. I just kept thinking about the baby inside of me—the deformed, sick, dying baby. A part of me wanted him out, wanted him gone. But another part of me felt it wasn’t my place to choose when his life ended. That was God’s choice.

  God’s choice. Why had God done this to me?

  “Sweetheart,” my mom said as we entered the house. “No decisions need to be made tonight.”

  I looked at her, my head a mess of medical information and gloom. “That’s good because I’m not making any.”

  As I made the never-ending trek up the stairs to my bedroom, I heard the first part of a sobbing conversation my mom had with my dad over the phone. I threw myself on the bed without turning on a light or taking off my clothes. I rolled over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Although my head was spinning, I made the effort to steady my mind. I pulled the covers over my face to block out the sound of the pounding ice on the roof, to block out the sound of my mom sobbing downstairs, to block out the sound of my mind asking the same question over and over again. I pushed the covers off my face and stared through the ceiling and up into the vastness. I asked the question out loud. “How could you?”

  Chapter 14

  We all face choices in life. Some are small, insignificant choices like what to wear to the prom or what to say to your crush when you see him walking down the hall. Those choices may or may not have long-term effects on our lives. You never know.

  Then there are choices that are so huge, so important, you know you are altering the path of your life as you make them.

  I made a choice that night at Cecelia’s party, not realizing then just how significant that choice was. It had changed my life. It had sent me down a path of grief and hatred and self-loathing. Now, it was sending me into darkness—a darkness like none I had ever known. And within that darkness, I would have to make another choice.

  ~ ~ ~

  My dad came home early that day. He entered my room soundlessly, lay down beside me, and stroked my hair like I was four years old again, snuggling up to my daddy. Neither of us spoke, but before he left my room, he kissed my forehead, and I felt the dampness of his cheeks against my face.

  I slept in the next day… until dinnertime. My mom carried a tray of mushroom soup up to my room. I wouldn’t let her feed me, so she left it by the bed. She replaced the untouched tray of mushroom soup with a tray of oatmeal the next morning. She replaced the tray of untouched oatmeal with a tray of cheese and crackers sometime around mid-day.

  “Sweetheart,” she said, placing the tray of cheese and crackers on the bed. “You have to eat something. We’re so worried about you.”

  I rolled away from her and put a pillow over my head—to block out both the light of day and her voice. She sighed and left the room.

  I stared at the wall until the light turned to darkness. And the light had truly turned to darkness. Whatever I had thought about depression—the depression I had experienced after losing my virginity, the depression I had experienced after finding out I was pregnant—it was nothing compared to the darkness that now engulfed my entire being. I could feel it invading my entire body like a cancer, killing me, eating me alive. I tried to push the darkness away by forcing myself to sleep, but my sleep was invaded by dark dreams of deformed babies inside of me, crying, screaming to be let out.

  If I were an intangible noun, I would be despair.

  I tossed and turned until the next morning as the light just started streaming into my window. By the time my mom brought me my new tray, those three words had started to reenter my mind.

  I stared at the ceiling again, nearly two days later, with the same question.

  “How could you?”

  I said it louder. “How could you?”

  I sat up and nearly screamed those three words. “How could you?”

  I shot out of bed, fury overpowering the darkness. My head spun, and I grabbed my bedpost for support. Once the room stopped spinning, I walked to my closet and changed into the first sweater and pants I could find. I headed downstairs, holding the railing for support, still dizzy.

  My mom wandered out of the laundry room, her face cautious. “You’re up.”

  “Yeah, I need to borrow the car.”

  “What for?”

  “I need to go somewhere.”

  “You can’t drive like this. You could pass out from low blood sugar.”

  “Mom,” I pleaded. “Please just let me take the car.”

  “I can’t let you go like this,” she insisted. “You could drive the car off the road in a dizzy state of hypoglycemia.”

  I stared at her for a moment then stomped over to the pantry and pulled out a box of crackers. I shoved a handful of crackers into my mouth as fast as I could, forcing my mouth to chew the large bites, cracker crumbs falling all over the front of my shirt. I marched to the fridge and pulled out a block of cheese. I pulled open the wrapper and took a large bite out of the block, my mom watching me the whole time, wide-eyed, mouth agape. I put the cheese back in the fridge and pulled out the carton of milk, guzzling it until it ran down my chin. I wiped my face with my arm, put the milk back in the fridge, and, fighting my stomach’s instantaneous urge to purge itself of its contents, looked at my mom and said, “There. Can I have the keys please?”

  My mom stared at me, apparently not knowing what to say at this point. I spotted the keys on the counter and grabbed them. She snapped out of her daze. “Where are you going?” she called after me, trying to keep up.

  “Church.”

  “What for?”

  “To start a fight.” I opened the front door.

  “What? A fight? With who?” She grabbed my arm.

  I turned to face her. “With God.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Lenna.” Pastor Ted stood up from his desk to greet me. But I wasn’t in a greeting type of mood. He seemed to notice this but made an attempt to hug me anyway. I stood there, my arms flaccid in his.

  “How are you?” He studied my face.

  “Not good.” My words were emotionless, but I wasn’t. I was as angry as I had ever been in my life.

  “Why not good?” He motioned for me to sit down at the table in his office.

  “I don’t feel like sitting right now,” I said.

  He paused on his way to sit down but decided to sit anyway. “Okay,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “You want to know what’s going on with me?” I said, my voice too loud for the tiny office.

  He nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “I’ll tell you!” I barked. “I had sex! I had sex with a boy who treated me like dirt. He used me. And after he was done using me, he put his clothes back on and told me ‘thanks’ before walking out the door and never speaking to me again. No, no, I’m sorry. Let me correct that—he did have to speak to me again when I had to tell him I was pregnant.”

  Pastor Ted’s eyes grew large and sad. “Oh, Lenna.” He shook his head.

  “Oh, but I’m not just pregnant,” I continued my rant, pacing the room and throwing my hands up in the air. “No, no, you see, that wasn’t punishment enough. The baby…” My voice broke as my fury dissolved into despair. “The baby is going to die. You see, I won the lottery of birth defects. Apparently, he has a rare condition. The younger you are, the rarer it is. And there’s no way he can survive. The doctor and hospital won’t even try to save him because his condition is not compatible with life.” I shouted those four hateful words at Pastor Ted. “We just have to let him die or kill him now.” I collapsed onto a chair and buried my face in my hands. “So God really got me good, didn’t he?”

  I cried into my hands for a while until I felt Pastor Ted’s hand on my shoulder. “Le
nna.” His voice was soft and sad. “God’s not punishing you.”

  “Yeah right,” I said, continuing to cry. “I made one stupid mistake and the punishment just goes on and on and on.”

  Pastor Ted let me cry until I couldn’t cry anymore. I finally looked up at him through swollen eyes. “How could he do this to me?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “How can you say that? He is totally punishing me for what I did.”

  “Lenna,” he took a deep breath, as though searching for the right words, “sometimes God allows trials into our lives to help us grow and change and become better people. He doesn’t do this to punish us. He doesn’t make bad things happen. He loves us. He loves you.”

  I looked down at my soaked hands. “It doesn’t feel like it anymore.”

  Pastor Ted shook his head. “He has never stopped loving you, and he will never stop loving you.”

  “If he loves me so much, why did he make me so stupid?” I stared at Pastor Ted. “So weak?”

  “Lenna, God doesn’t just hand us strength on a silver platter. If he gave us everything we wanted just like that, what kind of people would we turn out to be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He shook his head. “Lenna, instead of viewing what’s happening to you as a punishment, maybe you should look at it as an opportunity.”

  I was bewildered. “An opportunity for what?”

  “To grow closer to God,” he said. “To become stronger and wiser.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I whispered, studying my hands.

  “No, you can’t,” Pastor Ted said, and I looked up at him. “But God can do anything.”

  “Why can’t he take this all away from me?”

  “I think,” Pastor Ted said thoughtfully. “I think God has a very important plan for your life, Lenna. And this is part of it. You have to trust in God and in his sovereignty. He knows what’s best for us way more than we do. Sometimes you just have to trust him. Only then will you find some peace and hope in this situation.”