An Angel Unaware?

I couldn’t remember her name.

     She shouted at me from the far end of the food court in the crowded mall. It didn’t seem to matter to her that I was checking the price and cut of a really nifty linen jacket hanging on the sale rack outside the boutique. She just kept calling my name until she had my full attention. That had always been her way. Having set her sights on something of interest, she went after it with dogged determination. Like a racehorse with blinders.

     I set aside the jacket and waited for her to come closer.

     I greeted her with a smile. Had she been less determined to hold my attention, she would have noticed that my bland smile said, your face is familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t remember who you are.  

     “I want to thank you for helping me with my baby,” she panted, her breath coming in quick bursts after her uneven run-hop dash across the mall. “You’re an angel.” She leaned into me and threw her arms around me. “You made me have my baby.”

     Her words should have given me a clue as to who she was, but I was still coming up blank. I stared back at her, riffling through my memory for one tiny hint of our connection, while attempting to keep my face from showing the bewilderment I felt inside.

     I took the snapshot she held out to me. The child looked to be about eight years old. I helped her have a baby eight years ago? I cast my mind back, using the clues she’d given me. The program. A pregnancy. So our connection had something to do with my previous employment at a mental health agency. She must have been a client...

     Many people living with a pervasive mental illness are ostracized by their families even in today’s well-informed society. They live lonely, misunderstood lives, shunned by the very people they ought to depend on for emotional support. In community programs, clients and staff interact for months or years at a time. The close setting engenders familiarity, and the traditional client/counselor/caregiver boundaries often become indistinct. So it was no surprise that this former client still felt an emotional connection to me – a connection that I could not reciprocate.

    I gazed at the picture of the smiling eight year old, and bits and pieces of the woman’s story came back to me.

    For the mentally healthy person, a new pregnancy triggers many questions: Can I provide financially for my baby? What lifestyle changes should I expect? How will the baby be accepted by other children in the family? For people with a mental illness there are those questions, and more: Will my baby inherit my illness? Have the medications already affected the fetus? Should I discontinue the prescriptions and run the risk of experiencing a psychiatric meltdown?

 These are tough questions for which there are rarely any definitive answers. I recalled that this woman had expressed all these concerns, and more. Her family and friends insisted she terminate the pregnancy, but she wanted to discuss her options with me.

  “Tell me what to do,” she begged. “I trust you.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what your options are,” I suggested. Even as I was acutely aware that I was forbidden by God to recommend what the law of the land condoned, I needed to know where she stood, what her values were.

    She very clearly spelled out her choices as she saw them: Terminate the pregnancy; or, allow the pregnancy to continue, but stop taking the medications thus giving the baby a better chance for normal development. She would then risk a setback and a possible return to the hospital; or, do nothing different and let Fate take its course.

   “What would you do?” she asked again.

   “It’s not about me,” I said, mentally distancing myself.

   “I trust you,” she repeated. “Tell what you would do.
    What would I do?

    I had learned early in my career that I was not permitted to offer moral guidance. I decided early in my career that I would not offer advice in favor of abortion. But no code of ethics prevented me from sharing my own life experience as just that - my own experience.

    I told her about my son.

    My husband and I had been trying for some time to conceive. We were delighted when we got the news that the pregnancy test was positive. I was about five weeks pregnant. Two days later we were notified of “a slight abnormality” in the results and advised to undergo additional tests.  

    The follow up lab work revealed that I had been in the throes of Rubella (German Measles) a condition that is relatively harmless to the expectant mother but dangerous to the fetus. The medical team recommended terminating the pregnancy. The nurse had barely said the words when my husband and I together blurted out an emphatic “No.” We left the O.B. center with some concerns, but an inner peace at having made the right decision.

    For the duration of my pregnancy, we asked God to prepare us for whatever He had in store for us and our baby, knowing and believing that He is the Author of all life, even if that life turns out to be special. By way of preparation, we also did some research on the effects of Rubella on the unborn baby. We discovered that my deaf cousin, a wonderful, productive man, had been the victim of Rubella before he was born. Within my own family God had provided an example of a special life, one that was active, accomplished, full of purpose, and by no means a burden to the society or his family.

    Several months after receiving what should have been devastating news, my baby was born completely healthy — no abnormalities, no handicaps, no impediments. In fact, the pediatrician declared him to be perfect, proof that physicians don’t have all the answers, and God still works miracles.

    The woman listened patiently while I shared my story. “So you think I should have the baby?” (Again, that unswerving focus.)

    “Remember I said I wouldn’t tell you what to do,” I said. Then because I couldn’t hold back any longer, I added, “I believe abortion is wrong.” Then, ever aware that I could not support her in the direction she was heading, I asked my supervisor to remove her from my caseload and assign her to another caseworker. I never saw her again.

    I stared at the snapshot in my hand, looking for a sign that the boy had some developmental disability. “How is he?” I asked. “Any problems?”

     No, he’s a wonderful little boy. Just like his brother. And smart.”

    “And how are you,” I asked.

    “I’m okay when I take my pills,” she confessed. “Sometimes I want to quit, but I know if I don’t take them, I will end up in the hospital. Then who would take care of my boys?” As she spoke her legs resumed their pacing, a side effect from the very medications that kept her mentally stable. “I always think about you,” she said. “You were my angel when I needed one.”

    “Not really. I’m not an angel,” I answered.
    “Oh yes, you are,” she insisted. Then she snatched the photograph from my hand. “Gotta run.”

     As I watched her dart around shoppers, heading for the mall exit, I was reminded of how conscious we must be of the testimony of every word we speak and every word we withhold. Even when we’re not overtly declaring our faith, our lives, speech and actions very clearly say who we are and what we believe. The Scriptures [Heb. 13:2] remind us that when we entertain strangers, we sometimes entertain angels without being aware of who they are. Could it be that on occasions we play the role of angel to the people we encounter?

     I’m not an angel.

     I dismissed her words. And then I recalled the smile of the little boy in the picture.

     Well, maybe I am.

     And I still don’t remember her name.
Has there been a time when you were an "angel unaware" to someone? I'd love to hear your story. Share your experience with me via Twitter or Facebook.