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last updated 11/1/2002
When I met Rocky,
I fell in love immediately--or almost. We spent hours chatting and talking about so many diverse subjects I cannot even begin to name them. When he told me he had to leave to babysit for his sister, my brain seized. A Grown Man admitting to babysitting, and for his SISTER??? Even more mysteriously, he didn't sound put out by a task that my own plethora of brothers would have cringed at and tried to buy their way out of. I knew then that this was the man I would move heaven and hell to marry.
More than 2 years passed--we were married and expecting our first baby. We were both excited and frightened by the prospect. We had not been married long enough to feel comfortable yet, and we were already trying to make way for a little newcomer. I still had visions of the perfect husband floating around, and quite frankly, Rocky wasn't matching up! I'm sure that I was coming up short on the ole Rocky-wife-o-meter, too. I was moody, distrustful, jealous, moody, lazy, innattentive, moody, argumentative, insecure and worst of all--moody.
As the time drew near
to deliver our son (we never doubted for longer than a minute or so that he would, in fact, be a boy), our respective expectations and our own views of our current reality became even more wildly diametric. Disaster was imminent--and it struck, but from a field we least expected.
In my eighth month,what started out as a routine sonagram (for someone with gestational diabetes) became our doorway to hell. The technicians couldn't get a clear picture of our baby--couldn't even see well enough to verify what my overly distended belly assured them of...that I was indeed pregnant, and well along into the process. The head of the department was brought in to do her own exam.
My memory of what followed is blurred by the grief that overshadowed it, but several more tests, and interviews followed, and it gradually came out that our baby--so eagerly anticipated--had a serious problem. In fact, the problem was so serious that the powers-that-be were of 2 minds whether or not to deliver by c-section, or to let me continue in my ultimately fruitless pregnancy. We were sent home with our heads filled with dreadful pictures, and less-than-hopeful suggestions, all summed up in one do-or-die question--should we opt for the c-section and get him some help as soon as possible? Or should we let him be, and hope the sonagrams were faulty? We finally came to a very painful decision (after hours of cussin' and discussin')--only to arrive the next morning and find our decision had been taken away from us. Our child was doomed; the kidney-tap and bladder-tap they had performed in utero had proven to them that our baby was not going to live long, if at all, after birth. The risk to me, the mother, was too great to perform a c-section for an "unsalvageable fetus". I won't go into the rages and rantings I indulged in at bumping into those words everywhere I went--suffice it to say that the doctors were seriously concerned for my mental and emotional health.
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