A Question of Faith

A while back I wrote about how I had an epiphany that there is no God. At the end of the post, in the comments, I was asked if my faith is conditional.

I suppose if I once had it and then I lost it, and then maybe I started to rebuild it... maybe it is conditional. But it wasn’t really faith I was talking about. It was belief. For a while there, my belief in God was suspended.

I realized of course that like Job, I still believe, but my relationship with God is crippled. Partly because I am a crappy Christian, partly because you are crappy Christians, but mainly because my daughter has brain damage.

Can I tell you how many Christians have said to me with a big Christian smile, “God made Kimani “special” and chose you to be her mom”? Had it just been Down syndrome, I might have able to buy into that platitude. Lucky me, lucky Kimani, we are so privileged and special.

And in some ways, it would be true (even though you speaker of platitudes didn’t really know it from experience or believe it with conviction) because Ds is really normal everyday life in slower motion and without the normal capacity for evil behavior.

God made Kimani have brain damage. Are you going to say that too? God let Kimani have brain damage. God did not protect Kimani from brain damage. Maybe July 27, 2008 was a really busy day for Him and oops He overlooked her.



It is really hard to go around being Happy-go-Christian when you are furious with God. It is hard to listen to other Christians' platitudes, and to overlook their sinful actions when they are exclamation points in my dear john letter.

What is faith? If the question is actually one of belief, then yes I believe that God exists. But if the real question is do I have faith that God is all-loving and that everything He does is for our good? No, I don’t think I am confident in that concept any longer.

Eventually will the bigger picture prevail on me? It may.

The Princess and the Poo Poo Treats

I spend an impressive amount of time in front of the potty trying to convince little girls to go poo-poo. So much time that it finally occurred to me that it would be worth my while to go the route of poo-poo treats. I filled a plastic container with m&ms and put it up in a cabinet just outside the bathroom. Two m&ms for every successful trip to the potty.

Yesterday while Kimani was on the potty I found that we were out of m&ms (that post would be titled, The Pirates and the Poo Poo Treats.) So I offered her a cookie instead. While I was trying to bribe her with a cookie, my mom was offering to go buy m&ms and...



And then it happened. She signed cookie. SHE SIGNED COOKIE!!! She has never signed cookie before. In fact, she has not signed anything new in over a year, and during this past year she has hardly signed anything other than More.

I felt like crying. It has been hard watching her lose what little words and signs she had by age two. It has been so scary wondering if her cognitive development had stopped.

But over the last few weeks something strange and wonderful has been going on. I have noticed changes. She is focusing more. She is starting to engage in pretend play with her doll. She is being more cooperative. She is understanding more of what is being said around her, evident in her reaching for and putting on a bib when she heard my mom say that it was snack time. She finally knows that there are gifts inside the wrapping paper...



At first I could not believe what I was noticing. Coincidence, I told myself. But yesterday she signed cookie, and now I know that her brain is building new synapses, and strengthening what was left behind by the meningitis. I feel like God is giving her back to me one neurotransmitter connection at a time.

There Is No God

Just like that it came into my head one morning last October, “There is no God.”

It was a weekday morning, a Monday or Wednesday or Friday... I was running late getting Jade to preschool. All of the little ones were packed into the van, ready to go. All except Kimani who was refusing to be strapped into her carseat.

We had just returned from seven weeks in Ukraine. After our long absence, we brought home with us two strange children. Kimani’s response to this was to refuse to be “put” into anything. She would not sit in her highchair. She would not go in her beloved jumperoo, and she would not allow herself to be put in her carseat.

I joke around that changing Kimani’s diaper is like wrestling a crocodile, “Krikey, she almost took my arm off. Ayyye, she’s a beauty.” But for real, when Kimani fights you, you lose. Ok, so we could forgo the highchair and jumperoo, but the carseat was non-optional.

Kimani was thrashing around, stiff-legging, back-arching, screeching... I would get her body bent into position and she would shove off from the seatback, jetting herself up... She rolled to the side, she swung at me, scratched me, bit me... and then, crack! I slapped her.

She froze. Silenced, she slumped into her chair. She did not cry. Instead her face stretched long and her bottom lip jutted out. Her sightless eyes bore through me, surprised and questioning. Her silky cream skin turned pink where my hand landed. That is when I heard it loud and very clear, “There is no God.”

For a decade or so I had sought Him out. I read, I listened, I studied, I prayed. I gave up drugs, voodoo, and hating the world. As my beliefs strengthened, I left my corporate job and went to work for the church. I joined a small group. I started a blog and wrote about God. I was obedient and got baptized, accepted my special needs daughter, and then adopted two more. I had done all I could to be close to God.

And there I was, godless... a rotten mother who had just slapped her mentally retarded two year old. For me there was no other explanation... nothing other than I was alone in this world, alone with my faults and weaknesses, alone with my impatience and anger. Alone with my black heart. Alone without my faith.

I was pretty sure that nothing could change my mind about this. Yet in November a friend suggested that I spend some quality time with God. I was on a retreat and had the time to myself so I opened up the hotel desk drawer and pulled out Gideon’s Bible. I couldn’t remember where I had left off in Isaiah, so I skipped ahead to Jeremiah. And the message was, “O my sinful child, come home to me again, for I am merciful; I will not be forever angry with you.” Jer 3:12

I was moved but not convinced. Back then, I had expected to feel a blessing of some sort, maybe have my secret prayers to be a better person answered. And a guilt trip through Jeremiah wasn’t going to fix everything.

Then at Christmas, I asked for what I thought would be impossible. I asked the God I was no longer sure about to give Anya a family. I knew Anya was a hard sell. She wasn’t photogenic like so many children with Ds. She was not as advanced as the others... No one had ever asked about her and her time in the babyhouse was up.

When the Haddicks stepped up to adopt Anya shortly after Christmas, I was overwhelmed. And just like that I heard it loud and clearly, “Yes, TUC, there is a God.”


(The Haddicks are over in Ukraine right now getting their girl. Check out their exciting story.)

Doubting TUC

Have I ever told you that I am not the most faith-filled Christian? Yes, well, I am not.

I swear God told me it was time to adopt a child. I felt it. I prayed about it. I was pretty sure He said to do it, but it isn’t like there was a burning bush in the back yard or anything.

As often happens to me, I will get partway through doing something and I will begin to doubt God’s presence in it. This is especially easy for me to do when my church isn’t formally supportive, and when my father begins to question me, when the funds don’t appear, and when people send me emails hinting around that this adoption thing isn’t a good idea.

I start to think, OMGoodness, maybe I made it all up in my head. Maybe God didn’t say anything to me at all. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe there really is no God. Yes, I am a perpetual doubter. I panic and then I worry that my mistake will haunt me forever. Dramatic, eh?

And just when I started to feel sick to my stomach about the whole affair, my sweet Lord sent me a gift, a reminder of his promises, of his word, of his love and support. It came late last night while I was perusing blogs. I stumbled upon a video of a missions trip to an Eastern European orphanage. In web time it was long, eight whole minutes, but I clicked start anyway. And then it happened, she appeared on a swing, full of smiles. My heart skipped a beat and I backed it up. Was it really her? Was this possible?

That was the gift but not the reminder of his will for me. No, the reminder was the verse that was posted right at the end of my girl’s scene,
“Truly, I say to you, as you do to one of the least of these my brothers, you do to me.” Matthew 25:40.

If you have been reading my blog for a while, you might remember that is the verse that God used to prompt me toward adoption. I felt a physical swoop of joy and thankfulness when I read it there and my doubts melted away.

5:21 and 7:27, isn’t she adorable?

Saying Yes Is Hard

Sometimes I know what God wants me to do but I am not ready to do it. Like when he wanted me to get baptized and I pretended not to listen for about a year and a half.

It has been a while now that I have known that it grieves God’s heart to see the fatherless left to suffer and die. No doubt I first heard about that in Sunday school many years ago, and certainly there have been refreshers along the way.

Then Kimani was born and a new world opened up to me, a world where children like my little beauty are left in orphanages, without necessary medical care and therapy, without affection and comfort. A world where four year olds are shipped off to mental institutions where the lifespan inside those walls is less than two years.

I don’t exactly remember how I found Reece’s Rainbow but I do remember how I felt when I looked at those little faces, those eyes, eyes like Kimani’s, eyes asking to be saved. I felt the squeeze in my heart. I knew the day would come that I would travel halfway across the world to take one of those babies home to safety.

We were not in a position to adopt a child. Our house is full. We do not have an extra 30 thousand dollars sitting around. I already cook a lot and do a ton of laundry and change many beds. As parents we are already stretched. But one day in February as I was perusing Reece’s Rainbow, God whispered in my ear, “It’s time.”

And though saying yes to adopting was a hard thing for us to do right now, we did not bother to waste time protesting. With that said, let me introduce our daughters-in-waiting...

Mallory
Mallory is three years old and currently living in an orphanage in Eastern Europe.


Peach
Peach is seven months old and lives in the same orphanage as Mallory though it is likely they have never met. Peach has a very serious heart defect and needs to get home soon so that she can have life-saving surgery.


There is a lot of story between February and now, and I will share it when I get a chance on our adoption blog. There you can read more about our girls, and our adoption adventures.

I’m Supposed to Save Who?

In many ways my church is evangelical... we want to go out and save as many people as possible. We want to show people the way to God, encourage them to take next steps, and train them to become mature followers of Christ. We want to grow the body of Christ... to make more and better disciples.

Why? Just so they can fill our seats at weekend services? So they can tithe ten percent to support God’s work? So they can be Godly examples to others? So they’ll know the “right” way to vote when it comes to abortion?

I’m doing my part. I work for the church. I tithe as I should. I am involved in a bible study and I pray for my unchurched friends... Wanna see?

Dear God, I pray for my friend so-and-so, that she will come to know and love you. I pray that she will be saved and come to church. I pray that she will become like me... that she will write blog posts about you, that she will model your love in her marriage, that she will sing in the choir and volunteer in the Sunday school nursery. All this, Lord, so that she can become Christ-like, like me and then pray for her friends to become Christ-like, like her. Amen.

Lately His replies are way off topic... “Give justice to the weak and the fatherless; maintain the right of the afflicted and the destitute. Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” Psalm 82: 3-4

What?!!

Come on God, you’re not serious... are you? You want me to go rescue afflicted, destitute orphans? Don’t you think me working for you, me tithing my ten, me leading a bible study, and praying for those in need is enough? Sheesh. Can’t I just pray that somebody else takes up that cross?

And the King answered me, “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me... Truly, I say to you, as you do to one of the least of these my brothers, you do to me.”
Mat 25:34-40



p.s. Oh Mel-an-ie, La la la la la...I’m not listening to you.

"Will God call you to lead a Bible Study while He calls others to adopt orphans? No. As long as there are orphans in the world, we are ALL called, because these children deserve to have a family and a chance at life; they need to know God loves them. If every Christian family in the United States adopted only one orphan, we wouldn't have an orphan crisis around the world, and many Christian families have room for one more child in their homes. I firmly believe EVERY believer is called to care for orphans unless you are aged out of the system, are financially limited or have a physical condition that prohibits you from adopting.....and in those cases, you can still help raise money to assist others in adoption.

Some of my words may be tough to digest, but I am sickened by the prejudice against the orphans.....especially the orphans with Special Needs. For goodness sake, they are children. They are children. They are children. They are children. We cannot turn our heads and pretend it is not our problem."

Ok, seriously Melanie, I am listening. In fact, the whole "Will God call you to lead a Bible Study while He calls others to adopt orphans?" line is what inspired this post.

Bless Me Father, For I Have Sinned

Bob Marshall, a Virginia delegate (R-13th District), had this to say about the reason women have disabled children...

“The number of children who are born subsequent to a first abortion who have handicaps has increased dramatically. Why? Because when you abort the first-born of any, Nature takes its vengeance on the subsequent children. In the Old Testament, the first-born of every being, animal and man, was dedicated to the Lord. There's a special punishment Christians would suggest, and with the knowledge they have from faith has been verified by a study by the Virginia Commonwealth University.”

Huh, I am not even sure where to begin with all that is wrong there, so I’ll change the subject.

I got baptized in the Spring of 2008. As part of the process at my church you have to meet with someone and talk about your understanding of baptism. I was asked what I expected would be the result of my baptism.

Considering that God had made it very clear to me that he wanted to me to get baptized (why else would I stand in a water tank, chest-level deep, in front of a couple hundred people and profess my commitment to him), I was convinced that there would be a dramatic change in my life. I expected to come up out of the water a new person, connected to God in a new way.

Just a couple weeks after my baptism, I found out that the baby inside me had a major heart defect and would require life-saving surgery by 6 months old. Oh, yeah, and it likely had Down syndrome too. Not exactly the baptism blessing one might expect to receive.

In fact, a girl might start to wonder if God was punishing her for something. Because after all, aren’t disabled children a burden? Don’t they suffer and cause those around them to suffer? Isn’t the scorn and hate people heap on them because they are inherently wrong, a mistake of nature, perhaps even Nature’s vengeance?

I am so glad God prepared me through baptism for the birth of Kimani. He knew that soon I would walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He knew all the things I might think, all the fears I would have. He knew the barrage of contempt and ridicule complete strangers would hurl at me.

And he also knew that when it was all said and done, I would know I had been honored. I have given birth to a child that has given birth to me. There is no greater gift I could ask for. Kimani has cemented my faith in God and she has woken up my creative heart.

Thank you God, for in spite of my many sins, you have richly blessed me.


(Oh, and Mr. Marshall, shame on you for saying such an ugly, hurtful lie.)

The Year-End Big Brag

It happens every December. The letters come, some on their own, some stuffed in Christmas cards, some on the back of holiday family picture cards. The yearly brags... gushing highlights from this or that family’s year in review. I enjoy reading them.

Each year I tell myself that I will write one... that I will update everyone on our family’s exciting progress toward perfection. I never do it. I can’t do it. Because my year-end big brag is filled with gaping holes.

But this year I finally forced myself to do it. Yes indeed, I wrote the year in review letter for an audience of one... one I do not have to (nor am able to) lie to. It starts off, Dear God...

I will share a few highlights of the highlights...

I apologized for the me that hasn’t died yet, the me that is still filled with rage and fire, the me that so poorly represents Him when I am telling off someone who has hurt me or mine.

I recapped my weaknesses that should be long gone by now but aren’t and then immaturely laid the blame at his feet. I reminded him that with all we have been through, that I should have more faith and loyalty to him, but then pleaded for no more trials by fire to improve in this area.

I thanked him for answering so many prayers including the ones that are selfish and silly, and probably not worth his time. I especially thanked him for sending Kimani’s bottom front teeth that a dentist told me did not exist.

I talked about my marriage, all my children, my goals, my spiritual state of being... the highs and lows, the proud moments and the shameful ones. And when I was done, I folded it up and tucked it away in a drawer.

And then I thought, ha ha ha, imagine if I took the salutation off and sent this letter out on crisp Christmas-wreath-bordered paper... Um, yeah, it wouldn’t be funny but it would sure be the real deal. I can picture the jaws dropping and the “oh, Lordies” flying. Gosh, don’t you just love year-end big brags?

A Lullaby for Kimani

On July 26, 2008 I stumbled upon these verses. Kimani was battling meningitis and no one was sure yet who would win. Next to the verses I had written the date and the words, "A little lullaby for Kimani".

A song of ascents.
I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;

indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord watches over you—
the Lord is your shade at your right hand;

the sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;

the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore.

Psalms 121: 1-8

Making Me Proud

I can only hope my sons will grow up to be like this kid. If you care at all about me or my daughter Kimani, please take ten minutes out of your day to watch this video.

Prayer #2847

Through the years I have often wondered about prayer... what to pray for, and if it really matters. My prayers started off fairly simple in the early days, "Lord, if you take away this hangover, I promise to never drink Mai Tai cocktails again." Eventually I stopped being so self-centered, "Lord, please keep Cute Boyfriend safe on his motorcycle."

Time wore on and I began to pray more consistently for things I deemed important... someone’s health, marriage, salvation, or the outcome of a court battle. I wondered if those prayers made any difference. It was hard for me to have faith when the conversations seemed so one-sided. Even when things turned out the way I wanted, I still wondered, "Was it always meant to be this way or did my prayers influence the outcome?"

When I found out that the baby I was carrying had a massive heart defect, and that it might be an indication of Down syndrome, I wanted to pray the right prayers but had no clue what they were. Should I pray for a miracle... that the baby’s heart would be fixed in utero and that there would only be 46 chromosomes? Why not.

He answered "No" on both counts.

I prayed that she would eat, that she would heal, that she could go home... "No, no, no," He said. Everyone else prayed too; family, friends, church acquaintances, strangers... hundreds of people, all praying a prayer that, summed up, sounded like, "Let her live."

But after weeks and weeks, it was looking like we were going to get the ultimate "No". And this got me to wondering about my relationship with God. Isn’t He my best friend? Doesn’t He love me? Doesn’t He want only good for me? Let me tell you, if I had any other friend who had the power to save my daughter’s life with one breath of their attention, and they chose not to, well we wouldn’t be best friends anymore.

Did those prayers matter at all? Was she destined to die on some predetermined schedule?



When king Hezekiah was deathly ill, Isaiah told him that the Lord said he would not get better, that he would die. When Hezekiah heard this, he turned his face to the wall and prayed to the Lord, "Remember, O Lord, how I have always tried to be faithful to you and do what is pleasing in your sight." Then he broke down and wept bitterly. God tells Isaiah to go back to Hezekiah and say to him, "I have heard your prayer and seen your tears. I will heal you... I will add fifteen years to your life..." 2KI 20:2-6

Well, Hezekiah’s prayer made a heck of a huge difference, now didn’t it. Hence, I kept on praying for her life. Somewhere around prayer #2847 on her behalf, I realized that I was missing something. You see, I was still mad at God for not performing the miracles He could have. And all those "nos" were starting to make me question my faith altogether. What would it mean for me and God if He let her die? Could I still trust Him, love Him, believe in Him?

Thus, prayer #2847, "God help me to accept your decision concerning my baby. Help me to forgive you if you take my daughter back. Help me to not let my broken heart stand in the way of our relationship. Help me to let go and let you, even though I can’t understand why."

"Yes," He said, "I’ll give you that." And, finally, I felt peace inside.

What's She Worth?

There I was sitting on the couch, crying, and wondering aloud to my husband whether we should decorate the nursery with bedding previously used by our other children or buy new for this baby... our last baby. Up until the prior week there had been no doubt in my mind. Our little caboose would have a sage and chocolate colored, organic cotton crib set with matching curtains and a mobile too. But now that we knew there was an 80 percent chance of Down syndrome, the question lurked about in my mind.

At the time I didn’t realize that I was actually questioning the value of a “defective” child. 90 percent of children with Down syndrome don’t make it out of the womb alive because their parents answered no to a question about value much more significant than if new bedding was in order. Ah, but still, I am just as guilty of misjudging my child’s worth because the underlying belief was the same.

I am angry that I ever considered such a thing. I had forgotten that God created this child for His own purpose and glory (not mine), forgotten that God himself was weaving this child together in my womb. And, I had forgotten the gentle admonition that this child has its own angel in heaven who always sees the face of God (and can probably see what’s in the nursery too...)

Who am I to tell God that His work is flawed? He sees this child in ways I will never be able to. Perhaps the Holy Spirit lives in this child in a special way that I will never experience or comprehend. God knew then, while we were on the couch, that it was a girl and that she would be a great teacher. He knew then that He already loved her as much as He loves me... or you. If the King of Kings sent His own son to die for her, surely I could buy her a new layette.

So what is she worth? Everything.



(Isaiah 43:7, Psalms 139:13, Matthew 10:18)

Crossing the NICU Styx - Part 2

(If you haven't read part 1, you probably should start there.)

From across the water a shining figure appeared with an entourage and great fanfare, and even Cerberus whimpered in his presence. An angel of the Lord, I thought hopefully. He stared down at my child and the foreign words tumbled out, “Coarctation of the aorta... removal of the section and reconnection, deep hypothermic circulatory arrest...stopping blood flow to the organs, av canal...heart lung bypass...pericardium...sewing patches into the ventricles.” He spoke for some time describing his plan to secure the golden coin and the great risks it entailed. I could not listen to him, for my own voice was shrieking in my head, “He’s going to kill my baby, he’s going to kill my baby...” With sudden clarity I saw that he was not an angel. He was just a man, a man with no scars on his palms.

There are moments in life when you freeze, dig in your heels, and refuse to accept reality. You screech to a stop and the spinning world crashes into your back with its full force, knocking the air out of you. In a split second its pummeling affect leaves your body torn between puking and suffocating. With all your might you push back against it, struggling to reverse it just long enough to undo the tragedy that has befallen you. When that striking moment stretches into days and days stretch into weeks, you realize that your core is being smelted by God the Blacksmith. It hurts so bad.

Throughout the days and nights, I could hear the prayers of those in the Land of the Living beseeching the Lord with her name, Kimani... Kimani... Kimani. Hundreds, maybe thousands of voices pleading for her life. Mine too.

On Day 91, the gates of Hades opened up to receive my daughter. Cerberus drooled in anticipation. He would not let me pass with her. Somewhere beyond she would lay nearly frozen, disconnected from life, while the surgeon’s hands worked to fashion graceful conformity from a grave aberration. I gave her back to God that day. Still though, I called down every promise I could remember from His book. Then my husband and I, alone among the strangers on the river bank, waited the day through to find out if we had our baby or not. If not... if not... then part of me would forever stay there in that dark place.

Finally the heart surgeon came out to find us. His radiant smile gushed through my veins. He placed a glittering gold coin in my hand and I clutched it tight.



I paid it to the ferryman just as soon as I could and he loaded us into his boat. We made it almost half way across the rushing waters, almost. I was so focused on the light coming through the door to the way out that I did not see him coming. Cerberus. He lashed his tail at her, ripping her out of my arms. She fell into the water. No, not water... blood, poisoned blood... blood sepsis.

I screamed at God. I am no Job. I told Him the truth. "I am close to insanity now," I cried. "I need to be released now," I begged. He replied, "Go find her." He did not mean my daughter.

She was just down the bank a ways with her infant son. A mother like me, but not. A brokenhearted child like mine, but not. She needed me. Together we watched over our babies as their bodies labored to recover. Charon tormented us, flipping golden coins in the air. Heads they live, tails they die.

No, it doesn’t work like that I tell her. There is a God I tell her. Her eyes are hesitant but she wants to believe me.

After 113 days in the abyss, Kimani, all seven pounds of her, safely crossed the NICU Styx and entered the Land of the Living. I thank God everyday for sending her back to me.

Crossing the NICU Styx - Part 1

Five hours after my daughter was born into a comforting pool of warm water, strangers in scrubs came and arrested her. They carried her down into a world where life is in limbo. Her crimes were a broken heart and a narrow aorta. Her sentence would be long. Surely my sins were greater than hers...perhaps this was my punishment?

I followed her and found myself on the wrong bank of the river Styx, wandering lost, searching for the right coin to give Charon so that he would carry my baby back across to the Land of the Living. He rubbed a cold hand on her stomach. If only she would eat. Maybe if I gave up on nursing and let her have a bottle. Maybe if I gave up on the bottle and let her get a tube in her stomach. If only food were the answer.

My sweet daughter presented every sacrifice she could. On Day One she offered up her tiny hand and accepted the needle coursing with antibiotics. As time went on she would give over her arms, legs, head, and neck to the various needles. She submitted to multiple nose tubes, throat tubes, and a g-tube in the hopes that the food and oxygen they supplied would give her the strength to cross over.

But Cerberus attacked her, snapping his bacteria-filled jaws down on her. Not once, not twice... but again and again he cut his teeth into her, slobbering on her, filling her with poisonous creatures invisible to human eye. They tried to kill her but the needles flooded her with even stronger weapons of destruction.

And me? I sat there staring across her, across the river at the doorway to the Land of the Living and I shook with fear, with agony, with anger. I wanted to rip it all off of her and scoop her up in my arms... and run. The raging desire to escape with her was quelled only by the knowledge that she would be dead before we reached dry ground. I felt my inner self be slowly crushed and compacted. There was nothing left to me but a heavy rock in my stomach and my faith in God.

I was not alone on the river bank. I saw other mommies with other babies with other tubes and needles who had committed other crimes. And I saw Cerberus wrap his scaly tail around other tiny bodies and pull them backward to a place where only God could follow. I cried the tears of vicarious trauma... a suffering I’d never known existed.

Charon tapped a bony finger on my baby girl’s chest. Somewhere within her, somewhere inside the greatest artery, or perhaps hidden deep in a pumping ventricle was the golden coin he wanted. There would be no trip back across the NICU Styx without it.

(Continue to Part 2)