Facing the Challenges
Author: Lori Mofield
Original Publication Date in Love Notes: May 2001

It’s the first day of spring. The laden clouds float on unseen currents, slowly passing the one window of my associate’s office. As if confirming the dreary forecast from the early morning news, moisture begging for release fell in white fluffy flakes. The descent toward the ground a graceful love song, its movements tender and slow. I must include this in my novel, when I start it that is, making a mental note. The year is 1996 and I am almost six months pregnant with my fourth son. I’m a banking manager in a fast paced department; there is little time for fanciful meanderings. 

Turning my attention to the conversation at hand, intuition suddenly plays its hand. Tunnel vision. The voices around me melt into my subconscious, no longer hearing more than muffled tones. Just as the characters in my make-believe world, I feel the dread and subsequent apprehension. How? I cannot answer that question. Turning to my friend, and in a voice allowing no argument, asked her to come with me. 

The bathroom from hell for a pregnant woman; small stalls more for children than adults, narrow and unforgiving scratches from the sanitary napkin disposal hanging from the wall. I am a strong person; I can handle anything, everything thrown my way. 

Until I felt something running down my leg. Had my water broken? The warmth was there, it was wet and I began to let my fear seep up and overtake my courage. I am just about six months pregnant, this is not possible, I am healthy. Inhaling, I looked as I slowly lowered the garment, which protected my fear from overcoming me to find… 

Nothing. 

Nothing. Smiling, relief overwhelming, I just stood there looking and feeling silly and overreactive. I was about to tell my friend nothing was wrong when I began to hemorrhage. My friend took me to the hospital. I told her it was okay to run a red light in an emergency. She nodded, nervous and scared and sped through the intersection heading toward the emergency room where my doctor waited. An eternity passed in minutes, then minutes slowed to hours as the diagnosis was said. 

The baby must be delivered; it means the life of the mother, the baby and possibly both. The loving expression and gentle touch of my husband gave me the courage not to scream hysterically. His eyes filled with tears, and he nodded toward the doctor. 

My friend stayed with me, took care of things without being asked so that my husband could stay with me. Called my parents in Atlanta, leaving several messages, giving updates as needed. There was no question, no hesitation. She stepped in and stayed, she offered comfort and assurance. Everything would be taken care of, she arranged sitters for my other three sons, she is my best friend. Her name is Jeanna, she is my hero or heroine. Yes, I said it. Hero, they come in many forms, tall dark and handsome, small, thin, male, female, adult and child, and she will always remain a hero to me. 

He was delivered as the snow fell, my son, small enough to fit in the palm of my husband’s hand. Beautiful. 

“Would you like to hold him? It will be the last for weeks, if not months.” Tearfully, I accepted the bundle, kissed his face, spoke tender words of encouragement even as the nurses took him quickly from me, from the room and into the unknown. So light, so little, amazing he weighed in at 3.1 lbs., less than a bag of sugar. Jacob Patrick, a good strong name, let him live…, let him live up to his name. The snow continued its dance in graceful waves on the first day of spring. 

I quit the stressful job and tried to work out of the house. Small job by small job, it just wasn’t working. I was a writer even then, but only for family, the sappy, emotional stories and poems of days gone by. Then spring approached the next year, and I forgot the financial strain of my hopeless endeavors at making money. Nothing worked. My husband was laid off and worked on the road — Wichita, Kansas, six months and counting. I sat before my computer, the cursor blinking, money gone and the boys fighting. I remembered the challenge I faced, and have faced since that day. The constant bickering of siblings and the absence of my spouse, there was nothing. So, I escaped. I wrote, and wrote and wrote some more. 

Soon, I was drowning in stories, characters were yelling to be heard, and for some time I thought I was becoming schizophrenic, the voices asking to speak. That was until the snow came in graceful waves nearing the first day of spring. 

Indeed, four completed novels under my belt, I have grown, in knowledge, in friendship and hoping my novels are good, that they will sell, although I am already a success. Now I approach the first day of spring and as it should be, another challenge faced at the attack on son number two. Random and violent, I used humor and writing to whittle the hours away during his coma. I became an expert at explanation to family members and only cried when my son woke and using his hands, asked for a hug. That was my son, my most affectionate son who although intubated, wearing a neck collar and tubes everywhere, asked for a hug. My 15-year-old son, he would be all right and I thanked God that spring. I looked to the challenge with courage. The rebirth of my soul and the realization that I can face the challenge, whatever it may be, but never alone. 

It’s the year 2001, and I remember the early birth of my son; not more or less important than the birth of my other three sons, but that which can only be embedded in ones heart and soul. It was meant to be, he was meant to be. Both Jacob and I faced the challenges — he, to live, and me, to face the future with strength for my family, for my new son that he grow, cc by cc, and my growth letter by letter, word by word. The challenges faced with death’s grasp reaching for Kevin, which I fought with every bit of energy I had to chase it from him, so far so good. As this spring approaches, different struggles and challenges face me. My oldest son is 17, he will be leaving soon, a mother I will still be, but so very different. Something I will overcome and possibly see in my work? I have killed the bad guys, knowing in my mind they were my son’s attackers so I tortured them so terribly they begged for death and I was freed. But again, spring approaches. What will spring hold for me, my destiny? I look to the sky and smile as the sun shines its warmth down upon my face. My imagination runs wild… it’s the first day of spring and finally, its time for me.

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