Blocked

I am blocked! The dreaded writers block. Not that I'm really a writer. I would like to be, but really I'm just a wannabe. Every time I sit down to write a blog entry, my mind is so swarming with things and ideas, that I just can't settle on anything that seems interesting. So, I thought I would post something that I have written in the past. This is a little story that one of my sweet clients told me. It touched me deeply and I wanted to write it down to capture the emotion of her story.

A Mother’s Love Never Ends

            “It happened seventy years ago, but I can still feel the ache in my heart like it was yesterday.” The elderly woman paused to look out the window as she collected her thoughts. Snow fell lightly outside. The sounds of the outdoors were muffled by several inches of fresh snow. In that tranquil silence, she allowed her thoughts to take her back in time, back to a painful time. Her hands shook with the tremors that had cruelly taken much of her function. She clasped them together, trying to still the relentless shaking as much as possible. I waited for her to continue.

            “It was a hard labor. I remember wondering if she’d ever be born. It took many hours, but finally, she came—my beautiful Carol Christine. I named her after my mother and my husband’s mother. She was beautiful. The nurse cleaned her up and placed her little warm body in my arms. She was wrapped tightly in a white blanket. She was so tiny. I remember loosening the blanket so I could look at her little fingers and taking off her little cap to stroke her silken hair. It was lighter than Sherry’s had been. Maybe she’ll be blonde like her father, I thought. I don’t remember exactly how long I held her before I could tell something was wrong. An hour or two, maybe. She was breathing, but she made these funny, grunting noises. I tried to nurse her, but she wasn’t breathing right. I called the nurse in. She slid her stethoscope beneath the blanket and listened. She tried to hide a look of alarm, but I saw it and was filled with fear. She mumbled something about checking her out and whisked her away. That was the last time I saw her. I remember the panic I felt as I waited for the doctor or the nurse to come in and tell me something, anything. They were gone a long time. I lay there on that hospital bed waiting and praying. After a while I stopped hoping someone would come in and started dreading it. I was afraid of what they would tell me. I think something inside me knew she was gone.”

The woman, my dear friend, took a deep, trembling breath. She did not cry, tears were shed many times over the years and had run dry. The ache was all that remained. I stayed silent. There are no words for times like these. I placed my hands over her tightly clasped ones. She looked at me, the pain in her eyes fresh; even after all these years.

            “Do you know my doctor never even came in to talk to me? He never came to tell me he was sorry or anything. The nurse came in to tell me Carol Christine had died. She brought my husband in so I wouldn’t be alone. We held each other and cried. Later, they brought little Sherry in to see me. She was very young—18 months, I think—too young to understand why her mommy was so sad. I think they thought it would help me to see her. It did. I held her to my heart for a long time. Having her brought me through the next few months.” The woman sighed. For the first time since I had known her, she looked all of her 93 years. “We did an autopsy. Carol Christine’s heart had a defect. These days, they would have caught the problem on ultrasound and probably would have done a C-section so she wouldn’t have to go through the trauma of birth and then would have done surgery right away. She might have lived.

“My husband wanted to try to have more children. I didn’t. I was afraid it would happen again and I knew I couldn’t bear it.”

            Several minutes of silence passed before she looked at me again. “That’s why I’m ready to go whenever God is ready for me. I’ve waited seventy years to see my sweet baby. I’m actually looking forward to leaving this old, worn out body behind and holding her again.”

            That night, at home, I held my own baby daughter tightly and cried—my heart broken for another mother who for 70 years had grieved the loss of a daughter who lived only hours but left a lasting impression on her mother’s heart.

Several weeks later, I read her obituary in the paper. I felt sorrow over the loss of that special woman but also felt joy because I knew the ache in her heart was finally gone. She was holding and loving her infant daughter again.