He was our fourth child—and likely last one, we’d expected.

In our own eyes, we’d matured late— “maturity” in the sense of getting sufficiently used to the stresses of life in order to grasp the possibility of adding one more (i.e. “getting married”) As such, we’d married late, and our son now growing in my wife’s womb had placed slightly excessive strain on each of us.

Since she wasn’t showing yet, we decided to take advantage and wait a few more weeks to tell our other three children. We’d learned before, news of a new baby in the immediate family—or extended for that matter—naturally increases the energy levels of the children by about 5 to 7%. Since it decreases the energy of the parents (by about the same amount or more) we deemed it advantageous to delay the announcement for slightly longer.

Consecutive nights with little sleep had, at one point, been somehow inspiring. Instead, they now drained us in places we didn’t even know that we had room to drain. Like the good Catholics we were though (or tried to be about 94% of the time), we continued a Schedule of Life (our “SOL”, we liked to say) that would make Saint John Paul the Great proud—Mass and a family Rosary each Sunday with a movie together on the floor that afternoon, no TV during the week (except Friday and the weekend, of course, since we weren’t Luddites), no eating out except for Adventure Night once each month, one child leading dinner prayers, etc.

Yes, of course, the kids whined and complained at these seemingly Draconian measures; after some coaxing (but, not bargaining!), they’d indicate their preference for our SOL in their smiles that, I swear, literally touched their ears when the moon and stars were apparently just right.

We, of course, weren’t naïve about our role, or the “Catholic” role in their happiness. Yes, we believed that this ‘way’ was how God had called us to live; but, we also knew it wasn’t our doing. We felt blessed in the sincerest sense of the word (not in the ironic sense where a Christian privately honors themselves for their family’s general well-being). Whether it was God or a Blind Universe that had dictated it—the kids were great. Life was great. They weren’t great because we had successfully proselytized them in the Catholic Faith (well, partly that), but mostly because we had gotten lucky.

It was almost five months into her last pregnancy when the doctors told us. “Your son is healthy and strong; but, because of your age (he didn’t make eye contact here while speaking), your liver has become ‘excessively compromised’.”

I suddenly felt like I was being threatened. “So, what does that mean?” I paused, desperately wanting to take control of the room—as if then I could dictate the outcome of what we were about to hear next. “Does that mean, ‘it will remain compromised until she gives birth?’ or does it mean, (louder now) ‘we’re going to lose the baby because her liver is becoming compromised?’”

He gazed at my wife and I—not staring exactly—just looking and carefully weighing his next words.

“Neither… exactly.”

My wife and I stared back. “So then, what’s the problem ‘exactly’?”

He changed from ‘empathetic person’ to ‘TV doctor’. He removed his glasses and put them to his mouth.

“You will lose the child and your life (looking at my wife and pointing his glasses towards her), if you attempt to carry this child to term.”

At this, to say that my “stomach sank” would be an understatement. To say that it descended to the hospital basement would be an understatement. To say that I had a stomach, seemed to no longer a realistic statement.

My wife’s stomach, on the other hand, appeared to retain its position—judging by her demeanor being the only one, among us three (excluding our child), that had remained unchanged during this whole episode. For the entire time, her hand had been in mine; but, somehow, only now, I’d noticed it.

More elegantly taking control than I had, she asked, “What if we were to induce labor right now?”

“The baby would have about a 20 to 30% chance of survival,” the doctor said.

She took in the doctor’s response as if she was performing some invisible calculation. I sensed her, then, not wanting to sound desperate by asking, “And what if we just took our chances? And attempted to carry our boy to term?” So, I asked it.

“What if we just took our chances?!” I stammered.

Anticipating this, the doctor simply shook his head and looked at her. “Your ammonia levels, while they are being actively managed by your body, have been steadily increasing for the past 3 weeks…”

“Then, why didn’t you tell us then?!” I interrupted, dropping my wife’s hand and wrapping my arms across my chest.

I sensed his incoming academic answer and he sensed my incoming blank response. Despite this, he mechanically provided some canned doctor-jargon that that neither I was in position to hear, nor was he in position to clearly communicate without diagrams and prepared talking points.

My wife, continued her role as the Master of Ceremonies. “This is a Catholic hospital. I suspect that you have a bio-ethicist on staff who can understand the viability of any Double Effect procedures.”

“Yes, and I have already conferred with her. There is no possibility of that here. Your only choice is to abort the baby.”

As if the doctor’s update for this visit had been something closer to, “Everything looks great!”, she nodded, unsmiling, and asked, “How soon do you need to hear our decision?”

The doctor, appearing as if some tension had been released, leaned back and said “By the end of the week. We would need to refer you to another hospital should you choose that route.”

The drive home was in silence. My stomach was still in the hospital basement. My wife seemed to still possess hers—indicated by the Cheez-Its she’d found behind her seat and had begun munching on once we were back on the interstate. Desperate for meaning in my life right then, her eating them, so calm and purposefully, seemed to simultaneously make her appear holier and more intelligent—things I desperately needed right then.

“I’ve been feeling sick for the past week and a half. I wouldn’t have guessed that was the cause,” she said.

I put my right hand in hers and more firmly gripped the steering wheel with my other. “I used to imagine the possibility of something like this,” unsure what else I could say with any weight.

My wife had stopped munching altogether now and was gazing out the window. “Funny, I did too.” She was quiet for several minutes. “I know the decision that I’m ‘supposed’ to make here. I’ve done enough thinking for now though.”

We finished praying the Rosary that we’d started before the appointment. Retreating to our stoicism, we quietly entrusted the rest of the moments that day to the small things which we could control.

We didn’t talk about the Decision until we were lying in bed that Thursday. I think we both sensed it would be easier to discuss this with the ceiling as a mediator than with each other.

Out of the silence, I said, “This is what I feel: I don’t want you to die. I don’t want us to betray what we believe by having this abortion.”

“That is what we call a paradox.” I was slightly comforted by her attempt at humor and her charming emphasis on “paradox”. I think it was Chesterton who said, “It is the test of a good religion—whether you can joke about it.” She hated Chesterton.

We continued staring upwards.

We’d both always felt that “being real”—making faith something that was relatable to the people in our life—was important. Here though, what our faith seemed to be calling us to decide was so extreme—so infused with blatant martyrdom—that the question of “being relatable” was off of the table.

We laid there for 15 more minutes until she broke in.

“We’re going to try.” I felt simultaneous relief and dread at her words.

“If I was positive that there was a God, this decision would be easy. I’ve never been positive though. We’ve spent so much our lives trying to make relationships and our faith real, that we’ve actually emptied them of any hardness—any ability for them to knock into the pressures (she slowly moved her fists together) of the real world in a meaningful way. And, honestly, I wonder if that cheapens our faith.”

I wasn’t sure where she was going with this; I felt scared and comforted altogether.

“I still don’t know if there is a God. The first thing I thought after the doctor told us the news was, ‘Maybe God will give us the faith to make this decision clear.’ It didn’t take me longer than a few hours to realize that He’s not. I don’t know whether this is a test. I don’t know that God is there on the other side of that ceiling. But, I know that you are here. I know that I am. I know that our family is. I know that their lives are affected by the stories that we tell them and one day, they’ll wonder if they’re all true or not—or if our stories are just meaningless scenery of humanity.

“I just can’t see any way around this. I wish I could. I wish it with the same heart I used for wishing on my third, fourth, and fifth birthdays. This is going to suck—this ‘trying’ thing that is. This is going to seem ridiculous and like non-sense—not just to our kids when they learn what happened, but even to ourselves. It will seem ridiculous one day to our friends and family when they learn what happened here—regardless of whether we come out of this 2-0 or 0-2.” I was disturbed and inspired by her poetic reference to a win-loss record in this matter of the Last Things.

“Certainty about what the right thing to do is for trips to the grocery store. Certainty is for Newtonian physicists. (My wife had been a botanist with a penchant for TED Talks before this.) Certainty is not always for love and families and faith though.”

We returned to silence. Despite the power of her words, they couldn’t erase the dread I felt when she had said, “We’re going to try.”

For the rest of the week, we went on as normal—with an inanimate sort of Pain nagging at us—most so in the quiet moments when we couldn’t be distracted by work or parenting responsibilities.

The following Sunday, we went back to the doctor. On the drive there, I couldn’t help but notice she’d purchased the “White Cheddar” Cheez-Its instead of her usual “Original Flavor”. I felt like there was some metaphor here that only she could pick up on.

The appointment started off as if there was no Decision to make. Frankly, my wife was so at ease throughout the week that I was almost unsure if she was going to stick with her decision. After the normal metrics were collected, we returned to our usual seats for the conference with the doctor. He was taking longer than usual. Nearly an hour had passed when he finally entered.

His face wasn’t sadness like I was expecting. Nor was it happiness.

“You lost the baby,” he said quickly, but clearly.

The next seven seconds happened so fast that I didn’t bother to ask him how this could be. Just a week earlier, he said that this wasn’t a likely possibility.

My wife looked the same—neither happy, nor sad. I felt the same—neither happy, nor sad.

Tears were welling up in her eyes though and began running down her face. The same happened to me. The same happened to the doctor. It wasn’t out of happiness. It wasn’t out of sadness.

Through the tears, the doctor spoke and we listened, in our usual careful way. He explained the procedures in which the remains of our child would need to be removed by C-section since we had lost him so late in the pregnancy.

Ten days later, we had a very small funeral for Andrew. It took place in the vestibule of our church with only myself, my wife, and Father Tony present with him. It was over in less than 10 minutes. The next day, his ashes were reverently spread at the place where I’d proposed to my wife—overlooking the Ozark Mountains.

I’ve thought about Andrew every day in the year since we lost him. I wonder how my wife and my family’s lives would look if things had happened differently—first, like we’d expected. Then… like we’d expected. My chest hurts sometimes at the nonsense of it all.

I wish I could say that the two of us would have the courage to make the same decision again—to put two, or really six lives, as directly in God or the Blind Universe’s hands, as one can in this life. Honestly though, I don’t know if we could.

The only extent to which my wife and I talk about the Decision is when we pray for Andrew at the start of our Rosary each Sunday. Our oldest (13 years) finally asked who Andrew was shortly after the Rosary recently.

I paused from washing the dish in my hand and stared at it. Before explaining to him that Andrew is his brother, I asked him this first, “Have you ever wondered if faith is real?”

“Yes,” he responded.

“Andrew is proof of that.”