I still haven’t hit “send.” Why is that button so hard to press? I have edited, and edited, and edited some more. I have softened the tone of the letter to All Children’s while making sure our points are directly delivered. I have located all email addresses. I have written a nice little intro in a draft email and attached my six-page PDF.
Just.
Hit.
Send.
My people are all squarely behind me on this one–Michael, our mothers, our sisters, my dad, our attorney friend. It’s time, and it’s important. My sister reminded me to channel my maternal health self; I would have had zero issue sending a potentially controversial letter on behalf of a woman being mistreated at birth. Why am I hesitating now? It’s because, as my father so eloquently put it, I am afraid of pissing off the pilot while I’m still 35,000 feet in the air. We are still in treatment. The people named in that letter still have their hands on my boy’s charts, and on his healing. It is critical that every word sends the right message. And while I think it does–I know it does–I am still paralyzed at the mouse when I go to click that button. I don’t particularly enjoy controversy. But I do enjoy positive change. Now that the end of the business week has passed, I feel like I have a new 48 hour window to work with. When I am ready, I will pull up the image I intend to send with the letter. I think that will be just the motivation I need. This has to be done, and I know that I can do hard things. This is just one more hard thing.
In other news, Michael and I have decided not to have any more babies. I know this is extremely personal information to share, but I feel it is relevant because cancer has changed my view of this choice. We made the decision a few months before Benjamin was diagnosed. We even had private little ceremony to release the energy of creating new life, and it was extremely emotional. We were sad. I experienced thoughts like: I will never feel another little flutter in my belly. I will never have another contraction. I will never have a daughter. I will never have a newborn nursling again. Birth has been a big part of my life for a long time. These were powerful thoughts. Our decision was based in sound logic, but the sadness was very present.
Today, we made the decision official, physiologically speaking. I expected a bit of the same emotion to bubble up, but I wasn’t sad at all. I know that our childbearing years are over, and for good reason. I don’t feel equipped to shepherd a new baby through life and a child through cancer. And–this is a biggie–Banyan has had to adjust to enough lately. If we had another baby now, by the time I looked up to take a breath, Banyan would be off to college. Michael and I are solid on this one; we would really like to focus our energy on the two incredible people we have created. They are incredible. And, with what’s left, we’d like to focus on each other. Because we’re lucky enough to really enjoy each other’s company, and with each day that passes, we realize what a true blessing that is.
As always, your deeply conscious thinking and decision making is inspiring. How blessed are your sons to have such devoted, truly present parents.
I’m praying that your letter is received in the spirit with which it was sent. May those who read it take every word seriously, to heart and with the intention to always change the course of treatment for every child may need this.
T