There's an air of contentment surrounding me. I feel warm, well fed, and comfortable in a sea of fluid. The light thumping inside my form is the only perceptible sound in my tiny universe. I don't know how I got here or what forces operated to create me, but I sense I'm experiencing the beginning of an existence. The silent nurturing from my host fills me with profound affection and gratitude, for she is the reason for my being. My senses are being carefully engineered and programmed by the genetic forebears of my host.

While confined in this sensory deprivation chamber, I am aware of a higher stimulus level. I am in tune with the feelings and emotions of my host mother. When her mood changes from happy to sad, I feel intermittent waves of hostile fluid brushing up against my membrane—covered compartment. Having no defense against this murky sea of discontent, I merely wait for it to pass and hope it doesn't turn my mother against me.

Instinctively, I realize that I'm a burden to her. I have swollen her body with my presence and forced her to endure many uncomfortable, sleepless nights. Sometimes, I can feel ripples in my atmosphere as my host wretches her nourishment in bursts. When she's happy, my world is calm and secure, and my future is assured. Then comes the fears, the doubts, the uncertainties and I know my being is threatened.

At times, she's not sure if she wants me; if she wants the responsibility of having me; if she wants to bring me into the world. These are the most difficult times for me because I have no power to influence her, no power to stop her. The natural forces around me are operating efficiently to escort me to a new dimension of reality. But in order to get there, I need her love and commitment.

Although I can sense her affection, I also know of her ambivalence. She's trying to decide if she should let me live or end my short existence with a sharp edged instrument. Cutting through the thin sac that houses me will stop the process of my birth and relegate me to the status of a human waste product. Every fiber of my tiny body tells me I am more than that. There must be a reason for each life to be created. All I need is a chance to prove that I'm worthy of the life that has been started in me. What do I do to persuade my mother to spare me? How do I make her understand that I want to be born? It's difficult to imagine that she would destroy me because I'm inconvenient for her right now. It isn't my fault if I was created unintentionally, as long as it happened willingly. The fact is I have been created, so why not fulfill the term of my development?

If, after I've drawn my first breath of air, you decide you don't want me, give me to someone else who can help me grow. Whether you keep me or not, I will always be indebted to you for giving me life. We will always be connected on some level. Whether it's physical or spiritual, you will have created a part of yourself that no one else can claim as theirs. Yes, my mother, you alone have control of my destiny. Only you can decide whether I will have my chance at life. What I sense from you is fear and insecurity. You blame me for those emotions and you want to erase them by erasing me. But in your heart you know you will never be able to forget the bond we've forged since you felt my presence growing within you. Please be there for me now, and I promise to be there for you until the end of my days. I will make something of my life if only to prove that I deserved to be born and that you made the right decision in staying the course. Please, my mother, don't remove me like you would excise a wart or a tumor. I am so much more than an unsightly growth on the hide of an animal. Like you, I am the creation of a higher power. I have a will to live and a love to give. Grant me the right to be, and I will never give you cause to regret your decision. But if you should decide to rid yourself of me, I'll still love you for the brief span of time you allowed. Yet, in some other existence, I'll always wonder, as will you, what I could have achieved if given a first chance at life.

Bob Weir writes the syndicated column, "Weir Only Human." The author of 7 books, he is a retired NYPD sergeant, living in Flower Mound, Texas. BobWeir777@aol.com