Just for Today
| March 7, 2023They talk about my “options,” as though this is a decision between vanilla and chocolate, not life and death
I’ve never known you. I’ve never seen you.
But you and I share a secret.
It’s a secret we share: me, your father, and a couple of doctors who have nothing positive to say about you, my little one. My little baby.
Do the details really matter? They say you won’t make it out alive.
But right now, you are alive.
I know you are. I can feel it, every moment of the day. So alive.
They talk about my “options,” as though this is a decision between vanilla and chocolate, not life and death.
But you are alive, my child. And you are mine. And as long as you are still living, I will keep you inside me.
I attend a sheva brachos. Or maybe a vort. Does it matter? Happy faces swirl all around me. Young women, old ones, all eager, all caring. All interested in how I’m doing.
“When are you due?” I’m asked again and again.
“In the summer, im yirtzeh Hashem,” I answer. I’m surprised at the ease with which I answer, the questions roiling around my mind, seemingly locked away for the moment.
“How are you feeling?”
I smile. “Baruch Hashem.”
Because what else is there to say? I exude that same expectant glow, look like everyone else in my situation. If only they knew.
I reach out to an organization that deals with pregnancy loss. They are helpful, but can’t offer much in the way of support… yet.
“Call us back… afterward,” they tell me. “We have extensive support groups and materials for that. Right now….”
Right now, my baby, you are still alive.
I don’t want to wait until after you are no longer here to discuss your existence. You are a part of me, just as much as any other child. You are my neshamahle. I know that one day, when the righteous are resurrected, I will meet you again. Whole and free of sin.
But that’s in the future.
Right now, you are alive.
I have no illusions. They tell me it’s going to be difficult. Like it’s not difficult enough already. I’m aware of the risks, the complications, the sordid details. Did you think I wouldn’t be?
So how am I able to walk among the others, still smiling, keeping it all inside?
It’s because you’re still here, my child.
For now — for today — you’re still alive. Still here.
And every moment you are within me, every moment of your life, has a purpose. Somehow, your short — seemingly too short — existence is still needed in This World. In ways I cannot fathom, cannot understand.
So for now, I will continue to live — just for today. Not tomorrow. Not weeks ahead.
For today… you are alive, my child.
And as long as you rely on me, I’ll be there for you.
I love you.
Postscript:
Our son was born on a summer Motzaei Shabbos — still alive. Defying the doctors’ predictions, he lived for 19 and a half hours, during which we were able to get to know him, hold him, and love him. Though his presence in This World was short-lived, his impact will remain with us forever.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 834)
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