Fourteen years ago, I discovered, much to my surprise, that I was pregnant. I was engaged and moving in with Rick. That morning, I had talked to a friend to tell her I was getting married. Since Rick and I had only been together a short time, her first question was, "Are you pregnant?" This had not even crossed my mind, so I quickly responded with a curt, "no!" I relayed the conversation to another friend as we carried the couch down the stairs, unto the truck, and I realized that maybe I better check.
I was the kindergarten teacher in a town of less than 600 and single, so my friend decided she would purchase the test and after Rick went to work, she would bring it to me. I remember sitting there, on October 30th, knowing Rick was at work (pre-cell phone days) and the town was at the Halloween party. I sat there staring at the two pink lines unsure if I should cry or rejoice. I had been told for years that having children was not in my future, but here I was, pregnant, yet the timing was less than convenient. Rick came home 12 hours later and responded to my announcement with "oh shit."
The next few months flew by in a blur. In January, we found out that our baby was a girl. We began to prepare and search for a name we could agree on. However, our dreams were cut short when at 25 weeks, I had a placenta abruption. I was home alone on the ranch. I had sat down on the floor to fold laundry. The laundry would wait, it would sit on the floor, unfinished as a reminder. I had felt it the minute I sat down. I was barely able to flag down Rick as he drove by the house headed to the field. He called the squad as I lay bleeding profusely. It didn't help that the squad was staffed by volunteers that were our friends and colleagues; or that is was coming from 20 miles away. It didn't help that Rick was part of the fire department and his radio not only mirrored my cries and pain, but the sense of urgency in the operator's voice.
We rushed over the mountain pass, driving the 60 miles to the nearest hospital. They worked relentlessly to start an IV with no luck (I later counted over 27 pokes), and I lay fighting to stay alert, fighting the urge to quit. We were at the top of the Pass when I started to fade. A while later our daughter entered the world way too soon via emergency C-section. I was told she tried to cry, that she was pink and fighting. I thought things sounded good. I continued to float in and out of consciousness. Children's was on the way to take her to a more advanced hospital. But just a few short hours later, our dreams were crushed again.
Rick came into the room, his face filled with devastation. Kailie was not well. We had to make a decision. Based on what we were told, we chose to remove the ventilator and allow Kailie to pass while in my arms. At six hours old, she returned to Jesus. I held her for a short time, then she was taken from my arms, and she was gone. I was moved to a different wing away from the newborn cries, away from the reminders that my baby was gone. Funeral arrangements were made, people came and went. I was discharged to go home. People, meals, donations arrived, but comfort did not.
A week after she entered our lives, we buried our firstborn. It was the second worst day in my life. The next four months I fought to find a reason to get out of bed, a reason to take the next breath. Three months in, I met a sweet girl who would become my lifeline. She had just buried her sweet Noah. Together we grieved, we were angry, we shared tears, disappointments, fears. Thirteen and a half years later, she is still my rock (besides my husband, of course).
Over the past thirteen years, I have met many "empty-arm parents." Too many have lost a child. Too many have earned the title Mom or Dad, but are left with empty arms and crushed hearts. I discovered that we each are united through a bond of grief and despair, a bond that unless you have lost a child, you couldn't understand. We discovered that it is a taboo subject to mention, as people begin to squirm and fumble to find words when it is mentioned. Then, by "chance," one person who has already lived through the grief, smiles and begins to share. Suddenly an instant connection is
formed. Through these bonds, I have sadly discovered that the loss of a baby or child is far too common to hide the cards on a bottom shelf.
Today, I sat and listened to my pastor offer words of comfort to the family of a baby born too soon. As I watch the mom's chest heave in great sobs of sorrow, my heart felt each breath, each pang of overwhelming grief. I wanted to take her hurt, but felt helpless as I knew I couldn't, but I prayed Jesus would. I too, felt the comfort in the words uttered by our pastor, in the peace of knowing that as a believer in Christ, I will be reunited with my child. That my friends, who have placed their lives and trust in Christ will be reunited with their babies. One day, the empty arms that have broken so many hearts, will be filled with the babies that currently rest in the arms of Jesus. Oh what a day that will be!
