Prayer

Three days from now, on Sunday, May 10th, I will be celebrating a bitter sweet Mother's Day.  The day marks the 10th anniversary of the birth of my baby boys, Raymond Lawrence and Alexander Varney.  They were born 14 weeks early and only survived for a handful of days.  For several years I was unable to speak about what happened to my boys, for several more I was unwilling, and now I find myself unsure.  

The first five pieces in this blog are pieces that I wrote for myself at various points over the past ten years.  I'm sharing them now not only to tell their story, and the impact that their brief lives had on me, but because the time feels right.

I don’t pray any more.   

Praying is something that was second nature.  I’d find myself talking to God, asking for favors, the same way my mother narrates the day’s events to herself under her breath as she does her daily chores, a constant stream of whispered thoughts interrupted by phone calls and kitchen timers and resumed with the folding of towels and frosting of cupcakes.  I didn’t make unreasonable requests – I asked to be kept safe on flights, for my father to recover from cancer, for my boyfriend to propose.  I did not die in a fiery plane crash, my father is alive and well, my boyfriend became my husband.  I never really thought of the prayers as working…more that life was intended to work out that way.  

When my twin pregnancy was diagnosed, I didn’t pray for the little babies inside me.  I registered for double strollers and celebrated.  When the pregnancy was classified high risk and we were identified as having twin to twin transfusion syndrome, I don’t remember praying.  I knew it was risky, but I kept hearing about the miracles that doctors could work.  Wasn’t I in one of the best hospitals in the United States?   It wasn’t until the boys were born and I saw, literally saw, how dire things were, that I began to pray.  And for nine days, I don’t think I stopped.  My family rallied around me, so I was spared from dishes and phone calls and laundry.  I had nothing to interrupt my daily monologue to God.  I prayed for the bleeds on their brains to be mild.  I prayed for the holes in their hearts to heal.  I prayed for the heart monitor warning bells to stop sounding.  I prayed for the oscillating ventilator to not be needed.  Eventually, I prayed for Ray to be at peace and for Alex to be okay without his brother.  And then I prayed for Alex to live.  I didn’t care about his ability to walk, or talk, or swallow.  I just prayed for him to live.  

The last time I prayed was the day the bodies of my babies were cremated.  The funeral home wanted to know if I’d like to come see the bodies, and I agonized over the decision.  Death is not pretty.  The shells that my boys left behind were difficult to see, even for me.  I’d held them in my arms as their color drained, and I wasn’t sure I could take seeing them again.  Instead, I sat on my bed at home, wrapped myself up in a prayer shawl that was a gift from a family friend, held the stuffed animals that had shared my boys’ NICU cribs, and said goodbye.  I prayed that they would find each other in heaven, that they would know that I loved them, and that they would forgive me.   

Now I avoid prayer.  Like an old pair of jeans that you always reach for, or a frayed and careworn t-shirt, I often find myself mid-prayer before I can stop myself.  I know it’s irrational, but I act as if my prayers are jinxed.  If I pray for it, surely the opposite will happen.  When friends become sick or jobs are lost or test results are impending, I do not pray.  I am careful to say and write, “I’ll keep you in my THOUGHTS.”  I do not feel it would be helpful for anyone for me to keep them in my prayers.  

I know it is irrational.  I know it doesn’t make sense.  By my relationship with God was never on the strongest of grounds to begin with.  And now, I just don’t know that I can buy it any more.  What kind of God allows babies to die?  If there is such a being, I don’t want to spend eternity with him!  It’s easier simply not to believe.

But I can’t quite not believe, either.  I’d like to.  I like to say, “To hell with God!  It’s all a bunch of shit, anyway!”  But I can’t.  Because the only comfort I can rely on is the idea that I’ll one day be reunited with my boys.  I have an image in my mind, so vivid and real that it takes my breath away, of walking towards two tall, broad shouldered, handsome, blonde men.  I am new to the neighborhood, and they are welcoming me.  As I get nearer, their arms open, smiles on their faces, and they say, “Hi, Mom.”  And as I hug them, they lift me from the ground and it is as if we’ve never been apart.  

It is that moment that keeps me in limbo.  I can’t forswear God, but I can’t talk to him either.  I need him to keep my sons well, and to deliver me to them, but I can’t forgive him.  Logically, I don’t think I believe in heaven.  But my heart can’t let go.