Pain. The first wave of nausea did not break upon the shores but heaved and the swell became my tsunami of pregnancy. Weakness, weight loss, relinquish the plan. My plan. Hopes of days of wonder and enjoying and finding pleasure to be tucked away in the mother's heart.
IV's, Er visits, hospitalizations, home health nurses and isolation before the infant revealed his beautiful face. And when he was delivered, I knew I would die for him. And I have.
The death and the pain I have born for this one.
Visits to doctors, audiologists, appointments with respiratory specialists, guidance counsellors, teachers, testing. Playing Sherlock Holmes to uncover his pearl and puzzle. Attending to his needs, emotions, questions. It feels like the tsunami waves hit again. Again.
I am not the mother who watches as the son is washed out to sea in the undertow. I am the mother cleaved herself to the Cross, refusing to release either son or the wooden edifice. If he cannot cling, I will.
"Though He slay me, yet I will trust Him."
The tsunami, the labor of bearing sons in this stormy world with souls displaced and meant for God alone, continues.
