After the loss of our baby boy, our family explores life and death through the comfort of a stream.
It’s summer in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Our family has wandered off the beaten path into a forest shaded stream. Gentle currents flow along rocks and fallen branches while water striders glide on the surface. Around my calves, currents trickle. Trees sway with their leaves in a magical harmony to the tune of the waters. Birds sing, and blue butterflies flutter through the woods. I breathe in the mountain breeze.
An earshot ahead of me, five-year-old Cassandra and three-year-old Elijah climb over rocks and logs like they’ve been doing this their whole lives. Stepping over mossy stones, they flap their arms for balance and continue their journey up the stream. Cassandra grabs Elijah’s hand as he climbs over a rotting log. Standing at four-foot-two, she has him by a couple inches and takes her big sister role seriously.
Cassandra tells Elijah, "We're the only people here. Bears and bugs, but no people.”
Tall skinny trees sway in the wind. Elijah and Cassandra’s laughter echoes through this forest of wonder. Their voices add to the rustling leaves, chirping birds, and trickling waters. Life thrives here in this mystery of beauty. My mother’s heart warms watching my kids’ discovery.
Just around the bend of the stream, Nathanael journeys ahead with baby Hadassah on his shoulders. High in the sky, she reaches for butterflies with one hand and holds onto daddy’s hair with the other. Her dainty legs kick with glee. Nathanael’s sturdy arms carry her with ease. He navigates this stream like he’s Tom Sawyer. It’s been a while since we’ve been on an adventure like this.
Watching Nathanael play in the water reminds me of what drew me to him over a decade ago. I’ll never forget him wheeling into an auditorium on a unicycle to teach kids about rockets and satellites. He’s always had a way of bringing playfulness to complexity, sometimes even to pain. In our neighborhood, teenage kids call him “the cloud catcher” because of his creations like his famous flying balloon or electric couch. With a large latex balloon and 130 ft of string, Nathanael collected data against the construction of a neighborhood cell phone tower, winning friends along the way. One Halloween, he rigged an old bed frame, two dollies, a couch, and an electric wheelchair, so we could cruise through our neighborhood handing out candy with the comfort of our own living room. Nathanael’s spontaneous imagination has led us on adventures all over the world. We’ve explored caves on the California coast, ant holes in Uganda, and the Golden Rock in Myanmar.
He has more gray hair now. More creases around his eyes. This past year has been hard. He looks out towards the trees, and I wonder what he’s thinking. Does work trouble him? Is he thinking about turning forty? Or, is the baby on his mind? My chest tightens. His figure becomes blurry through forming tears. I step onto smooth stones, feeling their cool touch on my toes. I breathe, listening to the melody of the stream and remind myself that life flows here. Dead leaves, branches, and logs lie among living organisms creating habitats of life.
I hold my belly. My mind can’t grasp this loss. Can there be life one day and death the next? The OBGYN’s words remain stagnant like a dammed-up creek.
“There’s no heartbeat.”
The dark room from the ultrasound floods my thoughts. Seeing my baby boy, but no sound. No pulsing. A long silence. No heartbeat.
Feeling the cool water around my legs, I wonder if this stream could dry up. Can life cease to exist? Here one moment and gone the next. As the ancient book says, there’s “a time to be born and a time to die.” [1] But can death really come before one has experienced life? I hold my belly, struggling to understand this mystery. This boy is still inside of me. His soul has departed, but his body remains. He’s with me.
“Mom, check out this rock,” Cassandra yells.
Water rushes to the sides of a boulder at the center of the stream. Nathanael scoops each of the kids and places them on its flattened top. Twice their heights, this giant rock becomes their fortress. Elijah erupts with giggles. Carrying a long stick, he attacks leaves, pretending he’s a pirate.
With squinting eyes and a wrinkled nose, Cassandra shouts to me: “Ahoy, you crocodile.”
Hadassah, who somehow has been named “Smee,” Captain Hook’s sidekick, gleefully reaches for butterflies.
I shout to them, “I will get you, pirates!”
All three jump up and down shrieking and giggling. Elijah hands Cassandra a stick that he has pulled loose from a tree. Nathanael grabs a long branch, joining me to fight the wild rugrats. Back and forth we go. The kids’ laughter explodes. Nathanael and I cannot help but join in their silliness.
“We have defeated you, crocodiles,” Cassandra proclaims.
Elijah adds, “Now you must walk the plank.”
Nathanael sweeps Elijah into his arms, tickling him, “We’ll see about that.”
Elijah erupts with joy.
Out of breath from all the fun, I sit on a rock, my feet in the creek. Insisting that she sits with me, Nathanael places Hadassah on my lap. Her long legs kick in the water. The cool creek tickles our toes, and we giggle. She breathes, and I breathe.
Sleepiness grows in her eyes, and she wiggles in my arms. Snuggling on my chest, I feel her heart beating. Her warm belly pressed against mine, I hold her closely remembering the first time I had held her over a year ago. With one final push, she had burst into the world through my birth canal. Her healthy cries lit up the room. Covered in blood and amniotic fluid, the warmth of her tiny body felt like a rushing stream of love. All the months of waiting and anguishing pain of labor were worth it. She brought new life to our family.
“You did it babe,” Nathanael had said, beaming joy.
“We did it.” I told him.
Nathanael plays with Elijah and Cassandra in the stream. Hadassah has fallen asleep; I hold her closely in my arms. I stroke her long, brown hair and feel her petite legs dangling over my thighs. I miss my baby boy. My chest throbs. I weep. This boy was–is–a part of our family. He belongs with us. I imagine his skin on mine. Warm and soft. Tender and loving. Oh dear God, I want my boy.
Grounding my grief in the flow of the water, I wonder what this birth will be like. Will there be lots of blood? Will we get to hold him in our hands? How will our kids experience his birth?
Cassandra has asked questions like: “Will he be able to nurse? Can we hold him?”
Earlier this week, Elijah told me, “I’m sad, Mommy. Very sad about baby dying. I’m sad baby won’t have any eyeballs and we won’t get to play with him.”
“It’s ok to be sad.” I told Elijah.
This baby boy has left a gaping hole in our hearts. Nothing can fill it.
“Mommy, will you go on an adventure with me,” Elijah asks with his boyhood grin. He holds a tall walking stick. His tall, tanned body reminds me of Nathanael.
“I’d love to, Elijah.” I gently hand Hadassah over to Nathanael, careful not to wake her.
Elijah grabs my hand, and we walk downstream. I squeeze his hand while we climb over rocks. Water splashes. We nearly slip in the water, and he giggles. I smile.
Elijah’s bare back glistens in the sun. His sturdy legs climb through the rushing stream. He’s alive. I watch him breathe and know that blood is pumping through his veins. God has given me him as a gift. He’s given me all three of my kids as gifts.
Cassandra splashes over to us and grabs Elijah’s hand. Nathanael’s gentle voice sings to Hadassah not far behind. Trees sway in harmony to our family’s steps. Death doesn’t make sense. Decaying branches float through this stream of life, and somehow life keeps flowing. Our boy is gone, but our family carries on. His life will forever flow through us.