“Although, your autoimmune disorder appears to be in remission Vanessa, your attempts to become pregnant may place you and the fetus at an increased risk for obstetrical complications. So I suggest that you and your husband wait until I can conduct some more tests.”
“We have waited long enough,” Vanessa says softly, as she turns towards her husband and tries to interpret his facial expression. “I am forty years old, and after several miscarriages I am willing to take the risk.”
Thirty seven weeks later as clouds drift across a dark sky, Michael remains awake. He waits in solitude by his wife’s bedside. His tired eyes fill with unshed tears as a symphony of sounds creep into the room and intrude upon his conflicted emotions.
As he stretches his arm across white hospital sheets, he takes a deep breath and tenderly covers his wife’s cold hand with his. For the first time in his life he says a prayer. He watches his wife’s still form and waits for a response. He is not greedy. Perhaps a flickering movement from eyelashes that brush her pale cheeks, a sudden motion from her fingertips, or a tongue that travels over dry lips.
He steals a glance at her chest and watches as it rises and falls with every breath. He strokes her cheek with the tip of his finger and carefully places a photo of a preemie in the palm of her hand. Leaning over, he gently rests his unshaven face against her soft skin and whispers in her ear.
Suddenly, something wet caresses the side of his face. He sighs as he looks up and watches a tear roll down Vanessa’s cheek. And he starts to her all about their baby girl, Faith.