The Best Mother's Day Gift

The best Mother’s Day gifts are the memories kept close to my heart of my children, even those of profound loss and grief. 

 “Oh, he had the most beautiful blue eyes,” I announced to my mother as I tried to describe what it was like to see my first born for the first time.  But my husband reached over, gently placed his hand on my lap and softly said, “Honey, he never opened his eyes.”  From that moment on, it took years before I could talk openly about what I had seen that day in the hospital.  Perhaps it was my inexperience with life and death, the uncertainty of my own understanding of what had occurred, or simply the fear of not being believed.  Whatever the reason and despite my temporary silence, the events on November 11, 1983 penetrated the ignorance and darkness around my soul, profoundly changing my spiritual beliefs.  

I had always dreamed of one day having children, but at the age of twenty-four, I was diagnosed with a medical condition and was told there was no possibility of conceiving children.  Two years later, sitting on my bathroom counter beside the sink was a tube with a miracle inside a small glass window—a home pregnancy test was positive.  Though I felt a joy I had never known, it was years later before I realized there had been something beyond another human life growing inside of me—I had conceived a tiny seed of faith.

Four weeks before the due date, I was suddenly awakened before dawn when I felt something between my legs.  Like a water pump with some unknown force pressing down on my abdomen, my body was releasing a hot liquid every few seconds.  My eyes turned towards the clock and, as the red numbers, four twenty-four, came into focus, I reached for the light on the nightstand.  “What was happening to me,”  I thought, as I struggled to turn the switch.  My hand was shaking and every part of my body began to tremble violently.  I pulled the blankets away, leaned up slightly, and looked down—I was lying in a pool of blood! 

There were doctors and nurses in and out of the emergency room. An ultrasound revealed a defect in the baby’s bladder that would render the organ useless outside of the womb.  The baby was too weak to survive the birth canal, so doctors predicted a zero percent chance of survival with a vaginal delivery, while a Cesarean section only provided a grim one percent.  I wondered if there was even a choice with such odds, and I was overwhelmed by the morbidity of my own thoughts—for how could I go through labor, my body contracting and forcing a helpless infant into the world, knowing my own flesh would inevitably suffocate and end a life before it even had a chance to begin?  Why would God give me the miracle of conception and then take it back?  Foundering in despair, my only hope clung to a machine that muffled the sound of a tiny heart still beating strong.

“Is he dead yet?”  Those were the only words I could speak after waking in the recovery room.  The neonatal specialist said there was no reason to provide any life support because there was no hope of saving him.  His breathing was shallow, and all of his major organs were failing.  I wanted to see him and hold him right away, but the staff seemed more concerned with preparing me for the visible signs of what had gone terribly wrong during the pregnancy.  He had scoliosis, a clubfoot, and the skin over his lower abdomen had never closed, exposing his intestines.  By the time they had finished, a doctor entered the room and announced that my son had just died.  How could they let my baby die alone?  How could they take the only few moments I would have had with him away?  

Moments later, a nurse walked in and handed me a small bundle securely and tightly wrapped inside a hospital baby blanket.  I held him close, reached up, and gently placed my finger on his little button nose that was positioned so perfectly on his tiny face, surrounded by lots of dark brown hair.  My heart overwhelmed with grief, and my eyes filled with tears, I allowed my finger to glide down his soft cheek and underneath his chin.  Curious but frightened, I had to see all of him.  I pulled the blanket away from his body, looking for the damage they had described, but I was confused when all I could see was baby skin.  It was then when I looked up and noticed that part of the room, all around my bed was filled with light—a light that cannot be compared with the illumination from a light bulb or the sun.  It was unusual and strange, but not able to keep my attention for long because my heart was drawn back to my son.  His eyes were opened, and it was as if I had known him for years.  Moments later, he was gone, and I was left holding a dead body.

Thirty-four years have passed, and while I’ve carefully relived the event many times, asking many questions, trying to make sense of the details, the truth has never changed.  I saw life and death and one precious moment between.  The eyes of his soul met mine, and I watched him move from life to death as if it was just as natural as birth.  Though I grieved for many months, since then, I have never doubted a glorious life beyond this one.  I gave birth, but he gave me the seeds of hope and faith.  He awakened my spirit and opened my heart to the knowledge that all life has meaning and purpose, even if only lived for two hours.  

I miss you and love you, Christian Thomas. Love, Mom

P.S. If you know a mom who lost a child, take the time to listen to her cherished story about her child this Mother’s Day.