With that thought and maybe a million others scurrying in my mind, I resolutely sat in the sturdy cherry wood chair of the doctor's office. He and I went head to head as he offered facts and information, statistics and grim details of how my life would be at risk. I would never be able to withstand the physical toll that this pregnancy would take. I could die. What about my two sweet little girls at home? They needed me and deserved to grow up having their mommy. The risks for my seven babies also were huge and could not be denied. Assuming that the medical field was capable of getting them to a viable gestational age, usually at least twenty-four weeks, they still stood the risk of suffering premature lungs, blindness, cerebral palsy, and mental retardation—just to name a few possibilities.
I was not swayed. Staring into Jon's eyes with determination, I asked him if he would really be able to stand before the Lord one day and admit that we had allowed our precious babies to be killed in order to make our lives easier and more convenient.
Published on March 09, 2009