[LANGUAGE WARNING. Contains vulgar Anglo-Saxon terms. Reader discretion advised.]
In just a few hours, our daughter will be born. I can’t wait to meet her.
She has something wrong inside her head. The doctors don’t know for sure if it can be fixed. She may not have a functioning brain. She may be hopelessly crippled or mentally retarded. She may not live more than a minute, one doctor warned us.
And I don’t care. I still can’t wait to meet her. If she turns out to be one hundred percent fine, then I’ll be happy. If she turns out to be hopelessly crippled or mentally retarded, I’ll be happy. And if she lives only one minute, I’ll be happy about that too.
Because she exists. Because she is alive. Because even the most profoundly malformed baby is still a baby, a human being.
And every human being is an original, unique, and inimitable work of art, straight from the Hand of the Great Artist Himself.
How could anyone not be happy with such a gift?
But our baby is more than just any human being. She is a Lewis, and we Lewises are born fighting. We never fucking quit. We never fucking surrender. We love giving the Forces of Evil the Finger. We love fighting. We win. And if we don’t win, we still win. Because we can take it and take it and take it, and then look out of our bloody eyes and say “Pffft. Is that all you’ve got?”
Please don’t think I’m depressed. I’m not. I’m excited. The doctors are optimistic. My wife is optimistic. I’m optimistic. We all think this little girl is going to live and grow up.
But she may not. She may get only a minute in this crazy, beautiful world.
And if that turns out to be the case, if a minute of life outside the womb is all that a good God allows her? Then it’s still a win for our team. Because our daughter is a Lewis, and you can bet your ass that our baby is going to live that one minute as a Lewis — fighting for all sixty fucking seconds of it.
Delivery scheduled for 1000 hours CST, 8 January 2013. News and pictures ASAP. Thank all of you for your kindnesses and prayers.