These were the words I was asked earlier in the week, at a reading at the UC Irvine Bookstore. “Knowing what you know now, would you still demand that your twins not be resuscitated?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
In the long pause that followed, I understood how inadequate the reply. Knowing what I know now includes so much: how extreme prematurity affects a family, what a strain it can put on relationships, that marriages fail and parents go broke. The never-ending care and involvement of doctors, therapists, and social services. Standing before the bookstore crowd, how could I begin to address that history and those complications?
“I still believe, fundamentally, that if a baby is going to be resuscitated at this gestational age, it is the parents who ought to be making that decision. The parents will be the ones caring for this child, not the doctors, and it is the parents whose lives will be affected. Knowing what I know now, that is still my position.”
“But would you still ask for the same?”
I thought of my life these past ten years, my son and all I have learned. The bookstore was not the place to tell all this, and thirty seconds at a podium hardly afforded me the chance to speak of those lessons, the nuances: what it was like to hear my son’s laugh in the morning and how I never thought of his birth and my demands in those moments. Protecting him from the judgment of others because of his disabilities, and that the doctors or the delivery were gone to me, so far gone, because they were not at all relevant to what I did every day. The question was far too simple for such a complex set of meditations. How could I address fear, and grief, and compassion and love? Impossible.
So instead I said, “It’s complicated. There’s no easy answer. A person can’t put herself into a past moment in time and not be a different person, based on all she has learned. The decision wouldn’t be the same, because the events wouldn’t be the same.”
Knowing what I know now, the answer remains, “I don’t know.”