The Choice

“Your wife has suffered abuptio-placenta. The baby is now on its eight month but he’s in distress; his heart is beating faster than that of a running dog’s. You will have to make a choice, sir. Shall we try to save your wife or your child?”

I struggled to assimilate the doctor’s words as I ran my sweaty palms over my hair. Was she asking me which of the two I had to give up? I didn’t have an answer. I had read somewhere what they would have to do with the child should I tell them to save my wife. It was unthinkable?

Silently, I shook my head. The doctor compassionately nodded her head and said, “This is difficult, I know. Please take all the time you need to think. You may want to tell your wife about our dilemma.”

I entered my wife’s room and sat beside her. She was breathing heavily and pain lined her brows severely. “What’s wrong?” she said breathlessly.

“They say I have to choose between you and our child. I choose both of you, not either one of you,” I cried.

“Save the child, sweetheart. And when I’m gone, promise to take care of the baby and our four other girls. I’ll be okay,” my wife calmly said.

I shook my head again then, slowly turned away. There was only one other place to go now. I knelt on the pew of the vacant chapel and faced the cross. At the side, I could see the images of three Saints: Francis, Raymond, and Martin.

I bowed my head as my tears flowed, saying, “Lord, I may get the best doctor in the world for my wife and child but if I don’t have Your Blessing, she will not be able to do anything for them. But I trust that You love me, that You love Teresita and the baby. Have mercy on us. I promise that though You may choose to take them both, I will still Love You.”

As I wept quietly, I seemed to see the Lord smiling down at me through my eyes of faith. He stretched out His hand and held my shoulder. I looked up then. I dried my tears, stood up, and left the chapel.

As I went to my wife’s room, the doctor looked up expectantly. I smiled at her and said, “Just do the best you can.”

Hours later, at 3:00 a.m., an attendant came in and roused me from the restless doze I had fallen into. “Your wife has given birth!” she said excitedly.

“And the child?” I asked eagerly.

“It’s a boy! You can see him at the nursery tomorrow. We have to warn you that he’s in an incubator though.”

I couldn’t say a word. Tears of joy started to pour down on my cheek and once more, I fell on my knees saying, “Thank You, Father. Thank You.”

Two months later, at my son’s baptism, the priest asked me, “What shall we name the child?” I proudly answered, “Francis Raymond Martin, Father.”

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