BABIES

I’m an only child by chance, not choice. Mom noted in her Bible a baby boy born prematurely October 20, 1943, and a baby boy born dead October 17, 1944.

I remember the first time I saw my father cry. I was a six-year-old staying with Aunt Frannie while Mom went to the hospital to bring me a sister or a brother to play with. When Dad came to take me home, he sat down beside me on their davenport. Tears slid down his cheeks as he put his arm around me and said, “The baby died.” I wept with him.

At that time, parents were expected to quickly bury their nameless child without a church service or a mourning period to acknowledge their bereavement. I don’t remember hearing any conversations about their grief. My parents, their extended family and friends weren’t in the habit of sharing their feelings.

The doctor advised my parents to have another baby and they did. A year later, a second grave marker was added to our family plot in the Laona Township Cemetery. The physician then discovered the problem was Mom had a negative Rh factor in her blood and Dad had a positive Rh factor in his blood. That rarely caused trouble in a first pregnancy, but subsequent babies could suffer illness, brain damage or death.

I didn’t fully comprehend my parents’ heartbreak until I had a baby. Twice, Mom recovered from a birth in a hospital maternity ward without a little one in the hursery. Dad was a farmer who never had a son follow in his footsteps.

According to the website of March of Dimes, a nonprofit that works to improve the health of mothers and babies, about one percent of all pregnancies or 24,000 babies are stillborn in the United States each year. Today, couples are encouraged to name their babies and grieve their death. Support groups are available.

Have you or someone you know suffered the loss of an anticipated baby?