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Joyful expectation
You would almost forget those eight years of despair. For a couple who were humanly doomed to remain childless, we had been known as a 'miracle' for a while. The fact that we suddenly turned out to be living in a tiny house was therefore no reason for us to file a complaint.
"I knew we would get another one," she said. 'Yes, you always know things...' I gave back. 'But okay, what's the story?' "When I put our third in the buggy, I heard God's voice," she said matter-of-factly. 'He said, "This won't be your last".' So I can get very jealous of that, can't I? I sometimes think that Mirjam has a different provider or something. The Lord God often has to pull me by my sleeve repeatedly. Almost a kind of math quiz. Is His answer '2'? Then '1+1' just won't suffice. And '4-2' doesn't land either. Only at '2x5+3–11' do I think: 'Could God mean '2'?'
Nightmare
It was in her second term, when my love suddenly collapsed. It took 45 minutes before she was found. With a dead man's ride of 170 km/h we raced to the trauma department of Erasmus MC. About twenty men rushed to the scene. Within seconds she was connected to all kinds of meters. A lightning briefing. Tense faces. Someone pushed a chair into the back of my knee. A hand on my shoulder made me sit and I heard: 'We're going to do everything we can to keep her alive.' 'She's pregnant...' I stammered. Meaningful looks. A man with a stethoscope replied, "It's terrible, but I have to tell you this honestly: that little one is not going to make it."
For days she hovered between life and death with the baby in her belly. I sat next to her as if stunned. She seemed calm like that. A beeping heart meter as the only sign of life. I tried to think away the respirators. Would she ever get out of this?
One or the other
Three specialists came in at 01:00 at night. 'Do these people never sleep?' I thought. The first operation had not stopped the bleeding in her head. A second one was needed. More drastic. Longer. 'Remember: the fruit is difficult... But tomorrow is week 24, so the decision is yours.' Bizarre that a date put the fate of two lives in my hands. And 'the fruit?' His name was Maitiu.
'You have to be well aware: his chance of survival is at most 5 to 10%. And no mother, no child...'
After half an hour, the medics resigned themselves to my irrational choice. Clinging to the Word of life that God had spoken. Understanding him turned out to be a bitter necessity: Mir came back, Maitiu was born and our house was too small... And I pray more often with David: Speak, Lord, for 'Be silent before me, and I will be like those who go to the grave.' (Ps. 28:1-2)
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