Unconditional Love

These three remain—faith, hope, and love…but the greatest of these is love.

I thought having experienced parenthood that I had learned the lesson of unconditional love. I had persevered through some difficult teenage years, even when I was sure my child was replaced by an alien because the kind and thoughtful daughter I had raised became a screaming banshee. I bailed out a juvenile delinquent that actually was my son. I survived the trials of single parenting. I congratulated myself that I had loved my children well, in spite of themselves, and I loved unconditionally. Then I met Shelia.

The first time Shelia and I talked was over the phone. She pragmatically explained why she was talking to a hospice nurse when nearing the seventh month of pregnancy before the birth of her first child. Only a few weeks prior she'd received the ominous news that the ultrasound had some “irregularities” and an appointment was made with the fetal specialist. At that meeting they had discussed the pros and cons of continuing the pregnancy. She told me she had faith that her baby could as easily be in the survival percentage. But after that shocking and devastating consultation, she was “getting her ducks in a row.” I marveled, How do you get your ducks in a row when things are so totally out of whack? How could this mother contend with the knowledge that her baby might only have moments in this world?

I was invited to her next appointment with the midwife. First I observed the ultrasound and saw the look of flushed excitement on Shelia's face as we listened to a lively heart beat and watched her round belly undulate sideways with limbs jabbing at her as though waving at us, from a very active baby boy who was steadily growing. Then we sat in the living room and discussed all the possible scenarios, and this brave mom asked me to be present at the birth, as the resident “expert” on the “dying end of things.” I again marveled at her ability to seek information and address the unimaginable; the joyful expectation of a new life could be only moments of actual experience, and the planning of a burial was in the realm of probability. I wondered if anyone I knew had the strength that this young mother possessed.

All these years of being with the dying, and recognizing the similarities in birth and death, and I would now be seeing the two collide.

Weeks passed, with hopeful trepidation, and the week that Shelia was due arrived. On Friday evening she called me, crying. I knew without her telling me. The baby had no fetal heart tones. The death of a hope to nurture this baby even for a few hours died with his little heartbeat. But she told me there was still a hope that the home birth was possible. With the same strength of purpose she had exhibited from the start of our relationship, Shelia explained through tears of sadness that she still hoped for a birthing experience that would be memorable, not a trauma, and looked forward to some quiet moments with their baby.

I said a silent prayer for a gentle birth.

The next afternoon the midwife did an induction, expecting a long and arduous event. There hadn't even been time to soak in the birthing tub and the baby came without significant pain, and with a suddenness that no one expected.

There were moments to treasure—bathing, dressing, holding, rocking, singing to, and loving this little one. I was aware of how the hope had changed; from life and breath to comfort and sweetness and having the memory of their son with the realization that they were parents. The parents and son had exchanged gifts to each other. They had loved this baby before conception and had given him the chance to live. Although his little body held no signs of life, he had given them the absence of a painful, watchful death and the awareness that they had loved fully, and would continue to love their son all the days of their lives.

My call to the coroner was another jarring reminder of the coming and going in this life, and how different our perspectives can be. His question, “Was it a chromosomal abnormality?” and the term “fetal demise” were in stark contrast to the reality: the vision of a father rocking his baby son by a warm fire, a love shared, a life conceived, a hope nurtured and prepared for, and then a hope changed.

Briefly holding and loving a son whose life would never become what these parents had dreamed of; watching life and death colliding in this world that we live in—the midwife and I knew this was a rare experience we had been privileged to share with such beautiful parents.

His ashes are planted by a tree that overlooks a shimmering pond, and I believe his mother receives some comfort when she sits nearby.

I'd learned another lesson in life, where absolute love can overcome even death. Faith in each other, hope for the future, and love that transcends…love that is unconditional…and eternal.