“Emilie, there is never an easy way to tell a patient this, but I’m afraid that your baby is no longer with us. I’m so sorry.” These are words that an expectant mother never expects to hear. They are words that first time grandparents pray they won’t ever hear. Words that none of us will ever forget. Just a few words, spoken by a total stranger, that changed our lives forever. How could this be happening? This was something that happens to someone else, not to us. When you hear about a tragedy like this you think, “Oh, how sad. I can’t imagine how they must be feeling.” But it wasn’t someone else. We were the ones who were beginning to experience the pain of loss. We were the ones who immediately started asking, “Why?” And we were all hoping and praying that this was just a nightmare and it would be over soon. The baby we had just lost wasn’t even supposed to exist in the first place. He was an “accident,” the kind of surprise that you didn’t think you’d want, but after the shock wears off you realize that it is a priceless gift from God.
Our daughter, Emilie, had gotten pregnant in the first semester of her senior year at
After a few weeks at home Emilie began to feel a little better each day. Our family began to anticipate the arrival of the baby she was carrying. Of course we were disappointed about how the pregnancy had occurred, as well as the fact that Emilie was forced to drop all of her classes. We were also facing the financial repercussions that came with lost tuition money and apartment rent for three months until the lease was satisfied. But as we began to adjust to the idea of our daughter being pregnant, the problems that came with the pregnancy seemed to fade into the background as the excitement of having a baby in the family began to grow. Emilie and the father of the baby were not in contact with each other, and he was still in the
Finally, the day we had looked forward to for so long arrived. At work that day I could hardly contain my excitement. I couldn’t wait to see an image of my unborn grandchild and find out whether it was a “he” or a “she.” My husband and I met Emilie at the doctor’s office and we were directed to a room where the sonogram would be performed. The three of us were smiling from ear to ear. The sonogram technician began administering the test and asked Emilie if she wanted to know the sex of the baby. She assured her that she did and we were told, “It’s a boy.” But the technician wasn’t smiling. She didn’t seem to be happy about sharing exciting news with us. Instead, she was concentrating on the images on the screen. We could see the baby’s heart beating and from what we could tell he looked normal. However, the technician told us that she wanted to get the doctor to come in and look at a few things. That was when I first felt the excitement begin to fade, and fear quickly moved in to take its place. We began praying that there was nothing seriously wrong. The doctor came in to the room, looked at a few images, and asked us to meet him in his office down the hall. As we sat across from him he began to show us pictures that he had printed from the sonogram. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it had something to do with the fact that it didn’t look like the baby’s internal organs had formed properly. He also said that his heart rate was slower than it should have been. I had been this doctor’s patient for over 25 years; in fact, he is the one who delivered Emilie. In all of those years I had never seen him look so serious or so sad. He suggested that we take Emilie to see a fetal care specialist in the hopes that he would be able to examine Emilie and the baby to see exactly what kind of problems the baby had, and what affect they would have on his life. We left the office that afternoon with heavy hearts and great fear of the unknown. The day that we had so anxiously awaited had not ended the way we had hoped it would. I had planned on taking Emilie shopping at Babies R Us after her appointment so she could pick out a few little baby outfits. The last thing I expected was to be driving home in tears asking God the question people have been asking since life began, “Why?” But, as expected, there was only silence. Emilie had been through so much in the past few months, and had sacrificed so much to give this baby life. I just couldn’t believe that God would bring her this far along in her pregnancy and then allow something to go wrong.
The specialist was able to work Emilie in the next morning. It was a blessing because it was Friday, and the last thing we wanted was to have to wait through the weekend for more information. The appointment was at 8:00, so I knew that in about 15 hours we would know what the future held for our baby. Those 15 hours were some of the longest hours of my life. I spent the time begging and pleading with God to fix whatever was wrong. I prayed with all of my heart, mind, and soul for a miracle. I asked God to heal the baby before we went to the appointment. I kept hoping that the obstetrician had made a mistake and that whatever was wrong would be minor, something that we could deal with, or a condition that could be treated. Emilie, in her youthfulness and naiveté, hadn’t quite realized how serious this could be. I know that she was concerned, but the reality of it hadn’t quite set in yet. Her father and I tried to be positive when we were around her, but we all avoided talking about the situation.
Somehow we managed to get a few restless hours of sleep and arrived at the specialist’s office right on time. It had been a quiet ride all the way there, and we sat without speaking while anxiously waiting for Emilie to be called back to an examining room. After a few minutes we were led to a room with a sonogram machine, and the nurse prepared Emilie for the exam. The doctor came in to the room, introduced himself, and told us that he had spoken to Emilie’s obstetrician. He said he was going to take a look at the baby so that he would be able to give us a clear explanation of the extent of the problems and a prognosis. As he began the sonogram and I looked anxiously at the image of the baby on the screen, I prayed that he would tell us something that would encourage us. However, I immediately noticed that I couldn’t see the baby’s heart beating like I had the day before. As that exact same time the doctor was saying those words that literally took my breath away. “Emilie, there is never an easy way to tell a patient this, but your baby is no longer with us. I’m so sorry.” The doctor was very kind and compassionate, and he explained that the baby had died sometime in the early morning hours while Emilie slept. He used the sonogram machine to show us that the baby had several physical abnormalities, but he had no explanation for what might have caused them, or what had actually caused his death. Then he left the room so that we could have some privacy as we began to process our loss. We were told to take as much time as we needed – the room was ours and we wouldn’t be disturbed. I honestly can not ever remember being in as much shock as I was that day. I had resigned myself to the fact that there might be something seriously wrong with the baby, even the fact that we might be facing a future of caring for a disabled child, but none of us had considered the possibility death. And yet, Emilie’s baby was really gone. I remember the doctor’s words before he left the room that day. He said, “He’s in a much better place now.” I believe that God used his words to remind us that the precious little boy that we wanted and loved so much was, at that very moment, in heaven being cradled in the loving arms of Jesus.
We tried to pull ourselves together enough to leave the doctor’s office to begin the sad journey back home. I remember that I didn’t want to leave. I knew that once we left the peace and security of the examining room we would be forced to face the truth. I wanted to stay in that room and pretend that everything was okay. But, of course, that wasn’t possible. We all had to begin to accept the truth and somehow move forward down a completely different path than the one we had been traveling down the last few months. Instead of preparing to welcome a new baby into our lives we were facing the fact that there would be no new baby after all. When we had finally gathered up enough strength to leave we walked slowly towards the front door of the office. We tried not to make eye contact with the pregnant woman and her husband who were waiting to see the doctor. We knew that the nurses were aware of our loss, and we felt their eyes on us, as well as their sorrow, as we walked outside into a beautiful May morning. I just couldn’t believe that the sun was shining, the birds were singing, the trees were swaying in the mild breeze, and the temperature was perfect. It was a glorious day, but for us it had become cold and dark and gloomy. Instead of a day to celebrate, it was a day to mourn. As I looked around I noticed that people were going on about their business as usual. Couldn’t they see that our world was falling apart? I continued to pray that this was just a bad dream and that I would wake up any moment. And when I did wake up I would thank God that none of this had happened after all. Please God, I prayed, let it be a dream. Please don’t ask this of us. It is more than we can bear.
Later that day, as I replayed everything that had happened within the previous twenty-four hours in my mind, I remembered how I had begged God over and over the night before for a miracle. I knew without a double that He could have healed the baby with a single word, and I had ferverently prayed that He would. I asked Him, “Why didn’t You answer my prayers for a miracle? You knew how much this baby meant to us, how much we had grown to love him and wanted him to be a part of our family. How could You choose not to heal Him?” And God answered me. He didn’t speak in an audible voice, but a voice I heard in the very depths of my soul. He said to me, “I did answer your prayers for a miracle. My ways are not your ways. My idea of a miracle isn’t always your idea of a miracle. The miracle I gave you is that the baby you fell in love with, and wanted so desperately is now healthy and whole, happy and safe, and that’s the only life he’ll ever know. He will never suffer on this earth, nor will your family be burdened with caring for a child with severe birth defects. I know that you don’t understand now, but one day you’ll see that My way is always the best way. As for now, do not lose hope. For there is a day coming when you will hold this precious angel in your arms, and you’ll never have to worry about losing him again. Until that day comes, when your sorrow overwhelms you, remember that the child I gave to you for a short time will, from this day forward, live in glory with Me.”
We decided to have a memorial service for Emilie’s baby, our grandson, Everette Mitchell Williams-Fuller. Our dearest and closest friend, who is also a pastor, said a few words that I will never forget. His words were: “Everette never saw light here on earth, but the first light he did see was the light of Christ. How comforting – from the warmth of the womb to the warmth of his Heavenly Father’s arms. Never to experience sin, troubles, or sickness.”
There’s a song written and performed by “Watermark” called “Glory Baby,” and Emilie wanted to have it played at the service. It has brought our family so much comfort and peace. Some of the words are: “Heaven will hold you before we do. Heaven will keep you safe until we’re home with you, until we’re home with you. … Can’t wait for the day when we will see you, we will see you. But baby let sweet Jesus hold you ‘till mom and dad can hold you. You’ll just have heaven before we do, you’ll just have heaven before we do. … I can’t imagine heaven’s lullabies and what they must sound like. But I will rest in knowing, heaven is your home and it’s all you’ll ever know, it’s all you’ll ever know.”
Everette, my little lamb, my first grandchild, the baby who stole your mother’s heart, my heart, and Pop’s heart – you will always be our “Glory Baby,” and we can’t wait to hold you in heaven one day soon. We will never forget you, or how God used you to bring our family closer together. There will never be a day that we don’t miss you and wish you were here with us. But we rejoice in the fact that you are having a ball in heaven, singing, playing, running, and sitting at the feet of Jesus.
Hmmm. Was that a little giggle I just heard?