On Being

Making it through the mess.

In the twilight hours of a Saturday morning I raged at God, calling him an unyielding bitch. I told him that I didn’t care that his ways are greater than mine; I didn’t give a fuck about his ways. I wanted what I wanted. I wanted my niece to live.

Twenty miles north of my home, in farmland and country a good 40 minutes from trauma level medical care, my older sister was giving birth suddenly and unexpectedly in her home to my niece at 27 weeks and 6 days. The younger sister of us three called me sobbing with the news and I fell to my knees in disbelief. A sound unlike anything I’d ever heard before surfaced from my gut and out my throat. A wretched wail. I wanted so desperately for it not to be true – for this baby to live. Under these new conditions, I could not fathom how.

In the acute moments of disbelief, confusion, and overwhelming pain, unfiltered anger boiled hot. That’s how I came to call the creator of the universe an unyielding bitch. The fire that smolders controlled within me unleashed. Rage and honesty. This, I’ve come to find, is a super power. Anger, after all, can be exceptional fuel. 

Some time later that morning, I would be found saying I’m sorry, humbly on my knees talking to God like a toddler to a parent. “I was wrong.” I’d admit, as I do. “You know me though. You made me this way.” Which, I have to say, is also true. This conversation would come after the rage turned to pleading, then to hope. They are giving her chest compressions. How? I wondered, imagining a baby no larger than my hand receiving compressions from EMTs who had never done something like that before. What equipment did they even have to help her? I prayed with focus and passion, begging for her life. They’re transporting her to the local hospital. Here still she would have limited life-saving equipment, I knew. Yet, I stayed on my knees, hands white knuckled and clasping. She made it this far. A miracle. There could be more. 

I’m reminded again that how things are possible is beyond me. I’ve lived this many times, though never under such fragile and traumatic circumstances. I show up and God handles the rest, so I remained on the cold tile of my bathroom floor for the next few hours praying in between snippets of updates. 

They’ve intubated her.

She has strong vitals, they’re sending a team from Milwaukee’s NICU. 

The NICU team can’t fly, they’re driving.

The NICU team has arrived.

They’re prepping her for transport, it’ll be a while.

They’re headed to Milwaukee.

She’s doing well.

And yet, I know too the bitter taste of unanswered prayers. I’ve buried my mother. Five weeks later I buried my father. Two years later I’d deeply love a little one that wouldn’t make it to her first year. I’ve felt the crippling ache of earnest prayers turn into an answer I didn’t want to hear. Some heal from stage four cancer. Some don’t. Some recover from infection. Some don’t. Some get diagnosed with MS. Some don’t. Some babies live. Some don’t. I can’t pretend to see the pattern and I can’t pretend to always feel the good. I look up at the sky and question ‘Why?’ too much.

Yet somehow, with time and trust in a world I cannot see, my rage turns to hope. Anger can pivot like that. From years of pain into a run across America. From blasphemy to humbled begging. What I can bring is what I’ve been given: fire, honesty, prayer, hope, and the abrasive truth that sometimes what I’m asking for won’t be granted. The delicate line between joy and crushing sadness each day, bold and obvious to me. Huddled into a ball, I pray. Tears streaming, I pray. Hands wide open, I pray. Breathless in a run, I pray. Powerful and flexible, I pray, like the dragon I was made to be.