Links of Hope

When I was pregnant with Kiri, I shared with one doctor a secret.

I lived almost every day with Kiri with trepidation. I feared that we would lose him, but I was confident that we would not. I’m not sure how to explain this juxtaposition. I had learned the lesson that God wanted to teach me and had witnessed the gifts He gave me through our friends and caregivers, so, certainly, Kiri would be the baby that Danith and I would be able to raise and love on. Right? I also knew of the varied possibilities.

During the drive home after the anatomy scan, Danith and I remained silent. I imagined that his mind was running the same course that mine was. Then, a few minutes later, we exhaled. Our fingers interlocked, and we reassured each other that our son would make it. We had only four weeks to go until I reached 24 weeks, viability. Surely, my body could hold on for twenty-eight days. Right? We returned to the silence. But, then, again, our fingers found each other again.

The official medical team that oversaw the care for Kiri offered us a grim prognosis. Nevertheless, Danith’s and my belief endured. Late that afternoon, on the drive home, the sky was heavy with dark and bulbous clouds. Thunder roared, and lightning struck incessantly. As a child, I liked thunderstorms. I felt that they washed off the layers shielding me, allowing me to feel my real self. In the car, Danith and I decided, with firm declarations, that I would take off from work so that I could restrict myself to semi-bedrest. We made a list of what we would and would not do. With rain pellets striking our windshield, we drove to my office so that I could pick up my computer and printer. Afterward, we stopped by 7-Eleven and bought a bag of potato chips and a Big Gulp. We were ready for the fight. We were pumped; we were going to win.

Every day after the anatomy scan, I rubbed my belly and felt for my son. I reported to Danith the number of times Kiri kicked and where he kicked. I reminded Kiri of the people who loved him and were waiting for his arrival. Every day I prayed for him. I thanked God for him, and I spoke to my biological mother about him, promising her that I would be a good mother. I perused the internet for baby items and considered the paint color for the nursery. I cut and stapled strips of paper to create a chain to count down the days and weeks to viability. Each day, I would tear off a link from the chain. I hung the chain from the corner of my armoire so that I could easily view it from my bed. Friends with whom I corresponded via only written words prayed and counted down the links with me. For the next few weeks, I remained on bedrest except for scheduled and emergency visits to the hospital. My body hung in a precarious position, but my hope for our son did not.

This day, one year ago, I gave birth to Kiri. My son died. Since then, I have stopped praying. I no longer believe in prayer. I couldn’t find the answer for why God would favor one prayer over another. Why would He choose not to answer my prayer? What has remained with me, though, is hope. My heart dictates hope. I believe in hope. It lifts me. No, I did not get to bring Kiri home — when we had stopped tearing off the paper links, we still had 13 more days to go. But I will continue to believe in him. I don’t know how to explain this juxtaposition, either, except to say that my son taught me about hope, and I can’t allow any hope to perish with his physical being.

August 31, 2017