A Life Everlasting by Sarah Gray Page A

hundred miles to the U.S. embassy in London to complete the required medical tests, including an HIV test, and a chest X-ray to prove he didn’t have tuberculosis. It seemed bizarre and inhumane to not let someone move just because he has a disease, and well-known, treatable ones at that. We submitted photos of ourselves together and included receipts for all the phone cards we used to call each other. We were both required to write a letter explaining why we wanted to get married.
    Once he moved to the United States and we were married, we had to provide further proof that we were a couple, including the details of our joint bank account, our shared finances, bills we paid together—you name it. We completed hundreds of pages of confusing forms, and then there were those thousands of dollars in government and lawyer fees. Ross completed a civics test with questions about American history and the American political system.
    While all this was going on, we attended a wedding in Toronto. On the drive back, we were held at the border. Ross’s visa had expired, and, the USCIS explained, there was a backlog in paperwork; so instead of issuing him a new visa, they provided a letter that would serve as his visa until the actual document arrived. The immigration agents in Buffalo, New York, didn’t seem to be buying it, and asked us to step out of the car. We were forced to cool our heels for an hour while they figured out whether the letter was legit. I felt uncomfortable being treated as a second-class citizen, and it was unnerving to contemplate that my husband might not be allowed back into the United States. That ordeal had been a sharp reminder of what a jam I could end up in by cosigning a mortgage and having a family with someone who could be deported.
    I wasn’t able to attend Ross’s ceremony because I was on bedrest, but my dad and my brothers, Mark and Ethan, did, and they all filled me in afterward.
    About one hundred soon-to-be Americans and their family members met at the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia. Most were dressed up, and it was a festive atmosphere, with balloons and American flags.
    The future citizens stood, repeated after the judge, and became Americans. Afterward there were cookies, fruit, and soda, and the judge mingled with and congratulated the new citizens.
    Ross had become an American on a Monday, and now, on the following day, he was about to become a father. He’d had quite a start to his week.
    That Tuesday morning—March 23, 2010—I was surprised to find myself both happy and at peace. I was ready to stop being pregnant and be a mom. Let’s get this show on the road , I thought. Ross seemed excited, too. When it came to facing Thomas’s death, we were as ready as we were ever going to be.
    After all the phone conversations with Becky Hill from WRTC to discuss donation possibilities and logistics, I finally met her in person when she came to see me that morning in the prep room. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties, and she had long, blond hair. She was holding a beige knitted blanket in her hands.
    â€œIt’s nice to meet you!” she said with a friendly smile. “Our volunteers knit these comfort shawls, and we wanted to give this one to you.”
    â€œThanks so much,” I said. “I’m going to use this right now because it’s kinda cold in here.” Already in a thin hospital gown, I covered my bare legs with the soft, warm fabric.
    Although I didn’t realize it at the time, Becky and theWRTC team had done some prep work that was unusual. Normally, WRTC arranges donations for adults and children. A baby who had not even been born yet was a new one for them. This presented some unique challenges. For starters, they were used to gathering data about a donor in the controlled environment of a hospital; trying to gather that information while the donor was still in utero was uncharted