IT’S RAINING.
Not an auspicious beginning, I think. I shuffle my index cards on the table, trying to look more skilled than Iactually am. Who was I kidding? I am no lawyer, no professional. I have been nothing more than a mother,and I have not even done a very square job of that.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald?” the judge prompts.
I take a deep breath, stare down at the gibberish in front of me, and grab the whole sheaf of index cards.
Standing up, I clear my throat, and start to read aloud. “In this country we have a long legal history ofallowing parents to make decisions for their children. It’s part of what the courts have always found to be theconstitutional right to privacy. And given all the evidence this court has heard—” Suddenly, there is a crashof lightning, and I drop all my notes onto the floor. Kneeling, I scramble to pick them up, but of course nowthey are out of order. I try to rearrange what I have in front of me, but nothing makes sense.
Oh, hell. It’s not what I need to say, anyway.
“Your Honor,” I ask, “can I start over?” When he nods, I turn my back on him, and walk toward my daughter,who is sitting beside Campbell.
“Anna,” I tell her, “I love you. I loved you before I ever saw you, and I will love you long after I’m not hereto say it. And I know that because I’m a parent, I’m supposed to have all the answers, but I don’t. I wonderevery single day if I’m doing the right thing. I wonder if I know my children the way I think I do. I wonder ifI lose my perspective in being your mother, because I’m so busy being Kate’s.”
I take a few steps forward. “I know I jump at every sliver of possibility that might cure Kate, but it’s all Iknow how to do. And even if you don’t agree with me, even if Kate doesn’t agree with me, I want to be theone who says I told you so. Ten years from now, I want to see your children on your lap and in your arms,because that’s when you’ll understand. I have a sister, so I know—that relationship, it’s all about fairness:
you want your sibling to have exactly what you have—the same amount of toys, the same number ofmeatballs on your spaghetti, the same share of love. But being a mother is completely different. You wantyour child to have more than you ever did. You want to build a fire underneath her and watch her soar. It’sbigger than words.” I touch my chest. “And it still all manages to fit very neatly inside here.”
I turn to Judge DeSalvo. “I didn’t want to come to court, but I had to. The way the law works, if a petitionertakes action—even if that’s your own child—you must have a reaction. And so I was forced to explain,eloquently, why I believe that I know better than Anna what is best for her. When you get down to it, though,explaining what you believe isn’t all that easy. If you say that you believe something to be true, you mightmean one of two things—that you’re still weighing the alternatives, or that you accept it as a fact. I don’tlogically see how one single word can have contradictory definitions, but emotionally, I completelyunderstand. Because there are times I think what I am doing is right, and there are other times I second-guessmyself every step of the way.
“Even if the court found in my favor today, I couldn’t force Anna to donate a kidney. No one could. Butwould I beg her? Would I want to, even if I restrained myself? I don’t know, not even after speaking to Kate,and after hearing from Anna. I am not sure what to believe; I never was. I know, indisputably, only twothings: that this lawsuit was never really about donating a kidney…but about having choices. And thatnobody ever really makes decisions entirely by themselves, not even if a judge gives them the right to do so.”
Finally, I face Campbell. “A long time ago I used to be a lawyer. But I’m not one anymore. I am a mother,and what I’ve done for the past eighteen years in that capacity is harder than anything I ever had to do in acourtroom. At the beginning of this hearing, Mr. Alexander, you said that none of us is obligated to go into afire and save someone else from a burning building. But that all changes if you’re a parent and the person inthat burning building is your child. If that’s the case, not only would everyone understand if you ran in to getyour child—they’d practically expect it of you.”
I take a deep breath. “In my life, though, that building was on fire, one of my children was in it—and theonly opportunity to save her was to send in my other child, because she was the only one who knew the way.
Did I know I was taking a risk? Of course. Did I realize it meant maybe losing both of them? Yes. Did Iunderstand that maybe it wasn’t fair to ask her to do it? Absolutely. But I also knew that it was the onlychance I had to keep both of them. Was it legal? Was it moral? Was it crazy or foolish or cruel? I don’t know.
But I do know it was right.”
Finished, I sit down at my table. The rain beats against the windows to my right. I wonder if it will ever letup.
Not an auspicious beginning, I think. I shuffle my index cards on the table, trying to look more skilled than Iactually am. Who was I kidding? I am no lawyer, no professional. I have been nothing more than a mother,and I have not even done a very square job of that.
“Mrs. Fitzgerald?” the judge prompts.
I take a deep breath, stare down at the gibberish in front of me, and grab the whole sheaf of index cards.
Standing up, I clear my throat, and start to read aloud. “In this country we have a long legal history ofallowing parents to make decisions for their children. It’s part of what the courts have always found to be theconstitutional right to privacy. And given all the evidence this court has heard—” Suddenly, there is a crashof lightning, and I drop all my notes onto the floor. Kneeling, I scramble to pick them up, but of course nowthey are out of order. I try to rearrange what I have in front of me, but nothing makes sense.
Oh, hell. It’s not what I need to say, anyway.
“Your Honor,” I ask, “can I start over?” When he nods, I turn my back on him, and walk toward my daughter,who is sitting beside Campbell.
“Anna,” I tell her, “I love you. I loved you before I ever saw you, and I will love you long after I’m not hereto say it. And I know that because I’m a parent, I’m supposed to have all the answers, but I don’t. I wonderevery single day if I’m doing the right thing. I wonder if I know my children the way I think I do. I wonder ifI lose my perspective in being your mother, because I’m so busy being Kate’s.”
I take a few steps forward. “I know I jump at every sliver of possibility that might cure Kate, but it’s all Iknow how to do. And even if you don’t agree with me, even if Kate doesn’t agree with me, I want to be theone who says I told you so. Ten years from now, I want to see your children on your lap and in your arms,because that’s when you’ll understand. I have a sister, so I know—that relationship, it’s all about fairness:
you want your sibling to have exactly what you have—the same amount of toys, the same number ofmeatballs on your spaghetti, the same share of love. But being a mother is completely different. You wantyour child to have more than you ever did. You want to build a fire underneath her and watch her soar. It’sbigger than words.” I touch my chest. “And it still all manages to fit very neatly inside here.”
I turn to Judge DeSalvo. “I didn’t want to come to court, but I had to. The way the law works, if a petitionertakes action—even if that’s your own child—you must have a reaction. And so I was forced to explain,eloquently, why I believe that I know better than Anna what is best for her. When you get down to it, though,explaining what you believe isn’t all that easy. If you say that you believe something to be true, you mightmean one of two things—that you’re still weighing the alternatives, or that you accept it as a fact. I don’tlogically see how one single word can have contradictory definitions, but emotionally, I completelyunderstand. Because there are times I think what I am doing is right, and there are other times I second-guessmyself every step of the way.
“Even if the court found in my favor today, I couldn’t force Anna to donate a kidney. No one could. Butwould I beg her? Would I want to, even if I restrained myself? I don’t know, not even after speaking to Kate,and after hearing from Anna. I am not sure what to believe; I never was. I know, indisputably, only twothings: that this lawsuit was never really about donating a kidney…but about having choices. And thatnobody ever really makes decisions entirely by themselves, not even if a judge gives them the right to do so.”
Finally, I face Campbell. “A long time ago I used to be a lawyer. But I’m not one anymore. I am a mother,and what I’ve done for the past eighteen years in that capacity is harder than anything I ever had to do in acourtroom. At the beginning of this hearing, Mr. Alexander, you said that none of us is obligated to go into afire and save someone else from a burning building. But that all changes if you’re a parent and the person inthat burning building is your child. If that’s the case, not only would everyone understand if you ran in to getyour child—they’d practically expect it of you.”
I take a deep breath. “In my life, though, that building was on fire, one of my children was in it—and theonly opportunity to save her was to send in my other child, because she was the only one who knew the way.
Did I know I was taking a risk? Of course. Did I realize it meant maybe losing both of them? Yes. Did Iunderstand that maybe it wasn’t fair to ask her to do it? Absolutely. But I also knew that it was the onlychance I had to keep both of them. Was it legal? Was it moral? Was it crazy or foolish or cruel? I don’t know.
But I do know it was right.”
Finished, I sit down at my table. The rain beats against the windows to my right. I wonder if it will ever letup.