I had a night dream long ago about how hard it was to get to earth. For those of us who get pregnant when just passing through a room where a man is reading a newspaper and no more, it has sometimes seemed as though women becoming pregnant, carrying to term, and laboring to bring a living baby into this world is easy, common, like falling out of a ground floor window.

But, it isn’t. It is hard to get to earth, more than a one in a million odds, I think with certainty. Those souls who make it to earth have made a long trek with many perils along the way.

In my dream, I saw that getting to earth was like running an obstacle course of timing: making love timing, who what where when timing, physical timing, time of life timing, money timing, right lover timing, right this that and the other timing.

If little souls sit on clouds gambling on a body being made for each one, they’d lose their bets more often than win.

That’s why I think being born, no matter how a person came to be conceived, is like winning the lottery. Most of us were not planned. Some of us were not ‘wanted.’ Some of us arrived through a loveless act or a perfunctory one. Some of us came by accident. Some of us are called ‘the ooopsie baby.’ Some of us came from unsanctioned moments and are called ‘love child.’ Some of us were sick in utero, even sick unto death, but somehow recovered. And some of us, well…
Listen…

When doctors found that Gabriel was weaker than his brother, with an enlarged heart,and believed he was going to die in the womb, his mother Rebecca Jones had to make a heartbreaking decision.

Doctors told her his death could cause his twin brother to die too before they were born, and that it would be better to end Gabriel’s suffering sooner rather than later.

Mrs Jones decided to let doctors operate to terminate Gabriel’s life.

Firstly they tried to sever his umbilical cord to cut off his blood supply, but the cord was too strong.

They then cut Mrs Jones’s placenta in half so that when Gabriel died, it would not affect his twin brother.

But after the operation which was meant to end his life, tiny Gabriel had other ideas.

Although he weighed less than a pound, he put up such a fight for survival that doctors called him Rocky.

Astonishingly, he managed to carry on living in his mother’s womb for another five weeks - until the babies were delivered by caesarean section.

The children are home now. The doctor’s thinking was that one child seemed half the size of the other, not getting enough nutrients. The doctors said his heart was 3x normal size and it was likely the tiny baby in distress would die from a heart attack or stroke in utero.

Mrs Jones said: “They told us that if he died, it could be life threatening for his brother.

“We had to decide whether to end his life and let his brother live, or risk them both.”

At Birmingham Women’s Hospital, when Mrs Jones was 25 weeks pregnant, doctors tried to sever Gabriel’s umbilical cord to cut off his blood supply and allow him to die.

But the cord was too thick, and they could not cut through it.

As a last resort they divided Mrs Jones’s placenta so that when Gabriel died, it would allow Ieuan to survive. Mrs Jones said: “I put my hands on my stomach thinking of Gabriel. It was devastating. I had said my goodbyes.”

But the next morning Mrs Jones felt Gabriel kicking. A scan showed his heart was still beating. She said: “No one could quite believe it.”

Gabriel hung on, and his enlarged heart started to reduce in size. He also gained weight.

Mrs Jones said: “They thought it may be because the placenta had been divided. Inadvertently, it had evened out the distribution of nutrition between them, allowing Gabriel to survive.’

Like I said, it’s really something to make it to earth. If you’re reading this, you’re one of the very few lucky ones. I know with an earth burgeoning with over 6 billion people that sounds like an overstatement. It isn’t. Given all other matters, that you and I are here, is amazing.

I hope I can say this right without it being misunderstood; I hope I can adequately express the way this all sits in my heart, in my bones: I’m not pro-abortion. I’m not anti-abortion except for myself, my daughters and grandchildren: we consider a pregnancy, no matter how unexpected, no matter how it comes about, a gift of a soul trying to come to earth.

In our family, we’ve had our share of ’sudden pregnancies at untoward times,’ and the dear humans that came from those conceptions will all be sitting with us at the Thanksgiving table this year, as every year of their lives before. At the time of those pregnancies, there was never enough: not enough money, not enough resources, work, health, just not enough. But, in a whole other way, there was more than enough of an intangible that I don’t know the name of. And rigging that ‘unknown thing’ with a tattered sail, forward we sailed onto the open sea.

I deeply respect other women and their circumstances and choices greatly. No matter what they are, a woman most often has her reasons. But, I loathe that some find it fit to stand outside Planned Parenthood clinics screeching at women who already are struggling. I loathe the idea of using abortion as chronic birth control. I intensely dislike the idea of withdrawing resources and support from young mothers forcing them into surrendering their own children for adoption.

I’ve done much counseling of men and women and grandparents, many many years after an abortion or a forced adoption took place: they are all, as they wish, deserving of telling their story, of being heard without scorn or judgment, of finding their own reconciliations, the mendings they deserve.

And, I wish there were a third category in all the storm that is made by seeding the clouds about Roe vs Wade and anti vs pro everything… with regard to pregnancy. I would like a third category simply called: “Rooting for the brave souls who are trying to make it to earth. Despite all odds.” And a fourth category too: “Rooting for the brave souls who, despite their challenges, are already here.” May they all be blessed, and deeply so.

CODA
Of the two little 7 month old babies in the photo above, the baby on the left is the little one who was supposed to die but didn’t. He weighs 12.5 pounds, his brother 15 pounds. They are both perfectly well.