:: The S.I.C.L.E. Cell ::

:: Sunday, January 09, 2005 ::

Just got in from out of town. Was at "Gabbi's" wedding. Watched Gabbi's daughter dance and play on the dance floor. For a milisecond my mind's eye held an image of her floating in formaldehyde and her own blood in a medical waste container at Pendergraft's. I nearly fell off my chair.

That's where she had been headed. She had even been inside the building (where my child was killed). There was a container with her name on it.

Instead she is here with us... attending a wedding, delighting in the moment, wearing an $80 dress and floating around with a smile on her adorable face like a gossamer, white-winged butterfly.

This is not rocket science.
How can anyone think
that a medical waste container
is any place for a child?
This is not rocket science.

Outside, Grandma, the woman who had told her daughter to pray to God to find the strength to go back to Pendergraft's and abort the baby (at 23 weeks), found my husband and quietly told him how grateful she was for me in her daughter's life, how grateful she was that I had "convinced" Gabbi not to abort the child that Grandma now loves so very much. I only feel desperate gratitude, incredible privilege. (And I am glad to finally know for sure that Grandma doesn't resent me.)

The time of Gabbi's pregnancy was such a scary, horrible time. I recall sifting through used baby clothes with her, clinging to the come-what-may, buckle-your-seatbelt attitude that is love in such a situation... reminding the both of us that anything was better than a giant, white plastic jar filled to the rim with one's baby.

Three years and an unfun season as a cashier at McDonald's later... the girl is finishing college, just got married, owns her own home, has better furniture than I do, has $80 to spend on a dress for a toddler (which I don't), and, most importantly, has NO SICLE (which I do).

I have to say it again:
Three years ago this girl and I were knee-deep in a pile of used baby clothes trying to avoid anything with spitup stains, and now my own daughter is the proud beneficiary of her child's Neiman Marcus hand-me-downs! It's an INCREDIBLE, marvelous feeling!

If I had only had a crystal ball during the time of her tumultuous gravidity. It wasn't reality that was leading Gabbi to abort, it was fear. And the fears were not real; they never came to fruition! Life wasn't always easy, but it was always worth it.

Peering into the crystal ball we would have seen the choice between unending joy and sorrow... a white, wispy dress and a white plastic belljar. That was the reality.

Oh, Mother... you clothed your daughter in life!
May your days be blessed with the wonder of her!

:: ashli 11:55 PM # ::
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