circumstances. There were other words that described my dilemma. Strange? Yes. Disconcerting? Yes. Completely and horrifically out of control? Absolutely. But beautiful? No—it was not an adjective that belonged in this particular conversation, no matter how accurate it might be.
“Dana,” I began, shaking my head and raising my hands in utter dismay, “I can’t . . . I mean . . . Seriously? You’re being serious here?”
This was only the second time Dana and I had met, but given the circumstances, we’d abandoned the formalities and gone straight to first names. She was old enough to be my mother, and there had been a frantic moment during that first meeting when all I’d wanted to do was curl up in her well-padded lap and have her shush me into oblivion as my mom had done when I was a child, but the official nature of our encounter had kept my instincts in check and my pride intact. Besides, I was sure not even the competent and sympathetic Dana would have known what to do with a thirty-five-year-old woman trying to crawl onto her knees.
Weeks later, I didn’t remember many of the details of our first meeting. Only the general gist of the conversation and the mystification that had plagued me every day since then. My dilemma had done for my prayer life what trans-fat-free fries had done for my fast-food consumption. I was cranking out prayers as fervently as I was shoveling in fries, and though my decision hadn’t gotten any simpler to make, my ability to use a drive-through window without guilt had vastly improved. But I hadn’t given up on my praying. Not yet. This impassable imbroglio had proven two important facts to me. Firstly, I was helpless. A lifetime of learning to be strong and independent had left me more debilitated than I’d ever felt before. And secondly, my praying had gotten rusty. The first few times I’d tried to utter something profound, I’d sounded like a glossary of antiquated King James clichés. I was pretty sure God laughed at my initial attempts, but I figured he could use the entertainment as much as I could use the practice.
“I need you to make a decision,” Dana now said, reaching across the gray Formica tabletop to press warm fingers around my frozen disbelief. Her oversize gold rings sparkled in the morning sunlight, somehow incongruous with the muddiness in my mind. “The paperwork is drawn up, and we can get this procedure started just as soon as you give us the go-ahead.”
The go-ahead. Such an innocuous term. But in this case, it carried life-altering ramifications I couldn’t even fathom. I grasped the edge of the kitchen table and found comfort in its realness. It was solid and predictable, scarred by time and use, but it was there—measurable and palpable and familiar. It seemed at that moment that everything else in my life had catapulted off a cliff, exploded like a clay pigeon into thousands of jagged fragments, and fallen scattered and unrecognizable into the dark abyss below. Giving anyone or anything the “go-ahead” while the pieces of my life were still settling in the muck of incredulity seemed about as wise as diving into a piranha-infested lake with pork chops strapped to each limb.
“Dana . . .”
“I know it’s frightening,” she said, tightening her grip on my hand, “and I know you have no point of reference for making this decision.”
“It’s just . . .” I searched her eyes for answers. “How did this happen? I mean, a month ago my life was . . . and now it’s—”
“Kaboom,” Dana said matter-of-factly.
“Exactly.” I sighed and retrieved my hand to rub at my eyes and rake at my hair. Dana returned my gaze, unflinching, and I tried to absorb some of her calm as it wafted across the table toward me like the fragrance of cinnamon or freshly cut grass or White Shoulders on my mother’s chenille robe.
“Will you at least come to meet her?”
“No.” The word shot out like a reflex.
“I’ll stay with you.”
“No.”
“We won’t even tell her who you are.”
“I can’t.”
“Shelby.” Her expression was compassionate, but her eyes scolded my cowardice. “There’s more at stake here than just you. I know it’s overwhelming and I know you’re still reeling, but think outside yourself for just a moment.”
I laughed at that, mostly because that response seemed preferable to curling into a fetal position under my mom’s old kitchen table and praying to God for the Rapture to come quickly.