Whenever God Closes a Door

THE ULTRASOUND Wendy climbed onto the shiny step that led to the even shinier metal table that had been freshly papered. Today was our second ultrasound for this pregnancy. We were instructed to come back as the first ultrasound had a not-to-worry problem they wanted to check out. The ultrasound technician bounced into the room with all the vigor of a circus clown ready to participate in yet another happy event. It was her lucky job to introduce each baby to the almost giddy parents through a process that Jules Verne would have applauded. The magic of seeing a baby floating through a liquid universe of love was just about the most remarkable thing you could experience while awaiting the birth of your child. At first, the atmosphere was light as a biscuit filled with casual story talk. We remembered aloud about the picture we brought home from the first ultrasound. It found it's way into every conversation for months. Wendy was only 11 weeks at the time, so we did not get any hard facts on boy or girl. She was now starting week 24, so we would most likely be able to answer that question. We could finally check hands and feet and fingers and toes. What was to be a 15-minute appointment went from the first nurse turning into the third nurse and on to the 2nd specialist, a radiologist. As each new professional entered the room, it looked more and more like we were in a stage production. Each cast member would enter the room, say a few lines we did not understand, and exit. No one would offer any information that made any sense. We were told 'the team' wanted to meet and would be back shortly. We began the wait that I am very familiar with: the wait for a verdict. As a criminal defense attorney, I make my living being the vigorous defender of lost causes. I regularly sit silently when the jury rings the buzzer to tell the court that they have reached a verdict. The door from the jury room opens into the courtroom, and they begin the slow procession to take their places. I always look at their eyes. If they will not look at the Defendant, it is bad news. The door opened, two doctors in white lab coats and three nurses in blue uniforms came gliding into the room not looking at either of us. Instantly, I knew the verdict was bad. They moved in lock step with what appeared to be the boss at the point of the V formation. As he reached the table, he looked directly at Wendy. Words like deformed umbilical cord, fetal teratoma, and aorta, came out of his mouth but rang in my head like the church bells at Notre Dame on game day. No one else talked, but they all seemed to nod in sad approval. We understood nothing. Then the Radiologist summed up his thoughts: "I have two things to say to you both. First, ma'am, I know you are just starting your 24th week, but I am afraid you are in labor." Wendy nearly fainted. She was exhausted by all the tension, as we had been there almost 4 hours. "Second, I am sorry to tell you that I don't think this is salvageable." The word this hit me like no other word in my life. It was perhaps the cruelest word that could ever be used about a child. I was speechless and numb. In a flash I thought, maybe, just maybe, it was a call to arms; a challenge to my family that the new world order required a miracle. Not one of those pray-for-years miracles but a today one. In minutes, Wendy was whisked into an emergency room full of specialists. This was born our third boy, three months early at 2 pounds with a tumor on his heart the size of a second heart. After a successful emergency heart surgery, the surgeon pulled me aside and said, "this will not be his greatest problem." It was not. He survived. The marriage did not. As it turns out, instead of being a chaotic mess, raising three sons as a single dad ended up being a joy beyond explanation. It is certainly not for the faint of heart, but it is the reason I am here.