I have a story to tell. There was once a 27-year-old mother
of two. She had a 3-year-old and a 2-year-old, both beautiful little girls. She
decided that two was enough, and since she had complicated ‘womanly times’ and
a large fibroid in her abdomen anyway, she decided to talk to the doctor about
a hysterectomy. After all, she didn’t want to use her baby-making organs
anymore. Why not just get rid of them?
So off to the doctor she went. She told him what she was
thinking and he completely understood. Just said he wanted to run a blood test
to check up on some of the problems she had been having. She opened up a
magazine and sat in that little doctor’s office for a bit until he came back
in. He handed her a sheet of paper, saying simply “Look at the bottom of the
page.”
Pregnancy test:
POSITIVE
In order to avoid making the doctor and his resident
uncomfortable with tears of rage and sorrow, the silly girl started
laugh/crying almost uncontrollably. The doctor smiled and said that they might
need to hold off on the hysterectomy for a while. Wink, wink.
She didn’t want that baby. She thought so many times while
she was laying in bed at night that maybe God would just let her miscarry and
get out of it. She thought how much easier it would be if they didn’t have to
have three kids. They could all fit comfortably in a sedan, or a booth at a
restaurant. All very rational and important arguments.
Months later, this girl was sitting on her bedroom floor. She had just had an argument with her sweet husband about something trivial
like housekeeping. She had been slacking off. She had been dropping the ball on
so many things. She was too distracted by this thing inside of her that was going to keep her prisoner at home for
six more years.
She started thinking. I
can’t do this. It’s not fair to the girls. It’s not fair to my husband. They
don’t deserve to have some crazy, exhausted, angry woman yelling at them all
the time. He could do better for a wife. He could find someone who would love
our girls better than I can. Someone who doesn’t have all this doubt and self-hatred. Someone
better. They all deserve better.
Then the thoughts took a turn. I wonder if there’s a way that I could die without hurting the baby. If
he’s far enough along and I let someone know right before what I’m going to do,
the baby could still be fine. It’s not his fault he has a crazy mom who doesn’t
have the capacity to love. He could live and have his daddy and sisters. He
could still be okay.
I wonder if my life
insurance policy would pay out in the case of suicide? That would be a weird
question to ask our agent, though. I wonder if it’s in the paperwork? It’s got
to be somewhere. I’ll find it. I’ll make sure they’ll be okay.
Then she got up. I’m not sure what happened to her, but she
never went back to that afternoon. She never went back to that darkness when
she was sitting at the foot of her bed sobbing, wanting just to escape. It may
have been a smile from one of her girls; it may have been a kind word from her
wonderful husband. But she didn’t go back there.
She went forward. She pushed on and came through the other
side with a beautiful little boy, unlike anything she could have ever imagined.
He was the bright and shining boy that was born despite the darkness of that
afternoon. He shone light into her and helped her remember that her Maker would
carry her when she thought she could go no farther.
**I wouldn’t fee l right
about closing out of this post without a note to anyone out there who is
struggling with their own ‘dark afternoons.’ If this is you and you’d like
someone to talk to, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at
1-800-273-TALK (8255). You are also more than welcome to email me, but those
guys know a lot better what they’re doing! I hurt for you and I want you to
know peace in your life and your heart.
