Tradeoffs

This story has a happy ending.  Of sorts.

Kathryn would have been 22 years old this weekend.

She was born April 23rd, 1983.  Our second daughter, after Erin.  We were so excited to be having kids so close together - only 14 months apart.  We were sure they'd grow up to be the closest friends imaginable - almost twins.  My sister and I, born 13 months apart, have that bond.  My wife and her sister have about the same age spread, and the same closeness.

Kathryn was born on a Saturday, after a hellishly long and complicated labour.  My wife had been plagued by nightmares in the weeks before, dreams where her baby was born but didn't cry.  When Kathryn was born, she didn't cry.  She was put in an incubator and whisked in one direction - to a pediatric hospital.  My wife and I were taken to a room down the hall - she on a stretcher, me numbly sleepwalking beside.

What seemed like hours later - it was really only (!) 45 minutes. - a doctor we didn't know came into the room.  He cleared his throat, gathering his strength, and looked us in the eyes.  "There's no easy way to tell you this ..."

She had been born with severe A/V malformation, a one-in-a-million medical condition where her arteries and veins were ... I don't know, really.  Too elastic?  That sounds about right.  Essentially, things were pretty messed up in her circulatory system, and it had led to her heart being greatly oversized.  In fact, it took up most of the room in her chest cavity, leaving no room for her lungs.  No wonder the poor lil mite didn't cry.  She couldn't draw breath.

I hate suspense.  Just tear off the bandaid, already.  "So ... what's the bottom line ...?"

"She's going to die.  It might be today, certainly before the weekend is out.  There are no miracles to be had.  Your baby is going to die.  I'm very sorry."  And he was.  The poor man was radiating sympathy and felt as helpless in his way as we did in ours.

You don't have to work too hard to imagine how we felt.  Devastated.  Shocked.  Utterly destroyed.  Our happy life in shambles and shards around us.

Through that, my wife reached out and took the doctor's hand.  "I'm sorry you had to tell us this," she said.  "This must be the very worst part of your job."  My God.  The generosity ...?  Just wow.  Still, all these years later ... wow.

The next few months were pretty tough.  God love 'em, people tried to say all the right things, but really ... there's not much you can say.  People tried to find silver linings ... that's pretty much a no-fly zone.  People talked in vague terms about God's Great Plan.  Not so much buying a "Great Plan" that includes random suffering of innocent babies, thankyouverymuch.   It just ... sucked in ways that only people who have gone through it can begin to understand.

We dealt.  My wife stumbled through the first few weeks at home before announcing that she couldn't be around the house and deal with the empty arms, so she was going back to work.  If I wanted to, I could walk away from the job I thoroughly hated and do that writing thing I'd talked about doing ... focus on it full time while taking care of our other daughter.

A year later, on April 23rd, we were back in the pit.  The memories flooded over us, and it was as if it  were happening all over again.  Except ... my wife was pregnant.  We grieved - again.  But ... there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

Allison was born on September 2, 1984.   It was excruciatingly stressful, waiting for the "all clear".  Because of that freak condition, we were now classified as a "high risk pregnancy".  But she was born, and cried lustily moments later, and the world was a little better.  The next morning, as I bounced into the room, I found my wife holding our new baby, weeping disconsolately, and my heart was gripped by terror.  "What?  What is it?"  She couldn't talk.  "Tell me!"

She unrolled the blanket to show me Allison's feet.  Two of her toes on each foot were joined together, webbed.  "She's not perfect!" my wife said, and burst into great sobs.  I laughed and cried at the same time.  "She's fine.  Not perfect, but just fine."

And she was.

Skip forward four years.  April 28th, 1988.  We were sitting at the dinner table, when my wife looked up at me, stricken.  "What?"

"We forgot ..."

"I didn't forget.  But ... life goes on."

And it does.

The other day, the four of us sat around the dining room table.  Sunday breakfast - cooked by Dad - is an important tradition in our house, one of the few times we can get together as a family and just yak about everything that's going on in our lives.

Allison and Erin are so close now it makes me misty.  Didn't always feel like they would be - three years is a big gap when they become teenagers and the hormones kick in and PMS feels like it stands for Perpetual Menstrual Syndrome and for God's sake, can you women not all get on the same damn schedule? and all they can do is fight about who borrowed what t-shirt and got a stain on it and IhateyouIhateyouIhateyou and you'renotthebossofme and on and on. 

(One time, when we had company for dinner, the girls were sent off to do the dishes.  I could hear an argument brewing, and was getting set to go out and pre-emptively end it when - as always happens - the conversation lagged at the same moment the music went quiet and all the appliances clicked off and in that enormous, gaping silence, all you could hear were two teenaged girls' voices:

"Bitch."

"Cunt."

"Oops."

"Girls, can I see you in the TV room for a moment?")

But now?  Now they think and act as one - revelling in each others' happiness and supporting one another when life sucks and just ... being everything you'd want sisters to be. 

Allison has become this wonderful, funny, kind, thoughtful, talented, generous young woman.  She volunteers at the Humane Society, plays fiddle and violin at peoples' weddings, has her own CD, is a remarkably good writer and is excelling in the English Honours program at UPEI.  Her teachers have adored her since she was in Kindergarten and they adore her still.  The world is a better place for having her in it.

My wife and I had decided, long ago, that we were only going to have two children.  That was it.  Two.

We had Erin, and we had Kathryn.  And Kathryn died.  So we had Allison. And the world is a better place for her being in it.

Draw whatever conclusions you want about silver linings or Great Plans.  I'd have never made that trade. 

But I'm forever grateful for what I have.

Comments

[Southern Fried Girl]

What a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing it. :)

[Cool Girl]

I admit, it is a rather hormonal week in my month.
But I think I'm sniffling here for your lost baby. What could have been. What wasn't. And what was instead.
Nice post.

[Bucky Four-Eyes]

This was such a personal and touching post. Not many people could tell this story and still have a few smiles thrown in for good measure (the kitchen fight with the ill-placed background silence...I love that).

Thanks for lettin' us peek at your life, Nils!

[AndreaBT]

Nilbo, I'm right there with you. I had four miscarriages between my older daughter and the baby. And I realize that had any of those babies survived, we would not have Aislinn. And I already cannot imagine our family without her.

Furthermore, I did not plan a 4 1/2 year age difference. But it's working beautifully, probably better than a closer age difference would have.

I don't always understand how God works. I sometimes wonder why I had to lose those babies, why He didn't let me just be infertile for a few years. Maybe so I would still have hope? I don't know. But He's always come through in my life, so I trust Him.

Thanks for sharing that story.

[Craig Willson]

Each time I started to add a comment, I stopped, because what I would say seems trite and inadequate. It still does, but the day somehow just got a little better and at the same, time a little worse.

[Susie]

An impossible subject, handled beautifully.
"It just ... sucked in ways that only people who have gone through it can begin to understand."
I can begin. I've had people tell me that I'll see my children in heaven someday. If that's true, I'll be known in heaven as "the old woman who lived in a shoe." That many. People don't know what to say. Perhaps not here, either.

And your wife. Wow. You're an even better wife-selector than you are a writer.

[Jim Fogg]

Hi Nils
For those who read this blog, know I post once in a while, I went to high school with both Nils and Joyce. One ceratinly wouldn't describe our relationship as "friends" but it was more than "acquaintances", perhaps I'll come up with an appropriate term sometime. I never knew of the loss of Kathryn (not something that you send cards out for). And I'm not a parent. But I watched my parents lose a daughter (cancer at 44)and the grief was unimaginable to me. No matter how I felt, I could never feel what they were feeling. It's not the way it's supposed to be...children bury parents....parents don't bury children.....but as we all know it does happen and all too frequently. I learn something new everyday, the retelling of a horrible circumstance handled with grace, compassion, dignity and humour.......

Jim Fogg

[Deleted]

Thank you for sharing this with us.

[little sister]

You're right - I can't possibly understand what you went through. My parents could, though. My brother died the day after he was born in 1971. I remember him every March 3, and I call my parents, and we mention it, and life goes on.

Your wife is a wonderful woman to think of the doctor's feelings at such an awful time. You both must be really great people.

btw, I found you via Susie's blog...at least Susie gave us Booty Flies to make us laugh for at least a week :D

[kalki]

Thank you for this, Nilbo. That's all I'm able to say.

[Kelly AKA Fat Housewife]

I am sorry for your loss. Wounds like that never heal.

[mrtl]

Nilbo ~ With all of my struggles in coming to terms with God and plans and pain, this post has helped. Thank you for sharing such a painful part of your life with us in such an eloquent way.

You belong to a club of which I hope never to be a member. The sadness I feel just reading about that pain attests to that.

[LadyBug]

That was a touching story, and beautifully written. I'm still struggling over losing a baby to miscarriage three years ago. I have my sweet little Baby Boy now, but I still think about the child I never knew.

[kristine]

Wow. Okay, now we are even. I made you cry with a post and you made me cry with this one.

Thank you for sharing that huge part of yourself.

You really are an amazing person.

[Nils]

Folks, your kind comments are appreciated, believe me - kind comments always are. But I wanted to write this to point out that while it WAS painful - excruciatingly so - when it happened, that pain has long since mellowed into a rueful resignation that what was to be, isn't. And that Life (or God, or Buddha, or Fortune, or whatever you choose to believe) offers unlimited joys to balance off the great sorrows. And that healing happens while we're not looking, in ways we could never imagine.

[deneen]

I do not have the words to convey the way your post touched me. I have 4 girls-and they are everything girls should be. Healthy-thank God everyday for that-smart, funny, and beautiful. But from time to time I wonder about the one that I lost. What did I lose? How is our world just a little bit different because of the loss? But we have been blessed with more than we could ever repay.

I enjoy your blog-you have a gift for words. My time spent here is spent well I think.

Deneen

[Torrie]

Wonderful. Touching.

[Danielle]

Amazing.
I'm very sorry for your loss, but WOW, so incredibly happy for your family, and your ability to move on together.

You are a fantastic writer.

[Spuriousplum]

Nilbo, I'm sorry. I'm sad and glad for you, all at once. Thanks for sharing this with us.

[J.]

The loss of a child is so very tragic. I believe the beauty of life is how we find the strength to overcome that tragedy. Your comment "And that healing happens while we're not looking, in ways we could never imagine" is exactly how it happens...it just kind of sneaks up on you.

[Pissy Britches]

Wow. What a wonderful story. You blog is very good. Thanks for visiting me and for the advice about getting DOOCED! I hope that doesn't happen but that is a chance I am taking I reckon!
Please visit again soon, I know I will.

[mel]

I was not ready for that today! *sniff* I think I need to call my best friend now... Thanks for that, by the way.

[suburban misfit]

My daughter turned 5 on April 22. The baby we lost would have been 2 in February. Our friends' daughter would be 1 this coming September.

It's excruciatingly painful to think of what might have been, but it's wonderful to think about what IS. Our friends are now expecting a baby, due in August (tests show everything is OK this time), and we're discussing adoption.

I wish I was as strong and sweet as your wife. All I did was blame and sulk.

Your story was beautifully written. Thank you for sharing it.

[Squirl]

Beautiful story of love and courage. Thank you.

[laurenbove]

MR. N: Wow. You told the story of a tragedy for your family, that beautiful tiny soul, your wife's incredible generocity ... so honestly and candidly.

I almost had my last baby at 22 weeks and ended up flat on my back to protect him until 33 weeks. He came into the world in a frighteningly quick and bloody frenzy. He's now doing beautifully and I am beyond words, thankful. It didn't have to turn out that way.

Regardless of my bills, my health issues, my life, my depression...Your story reminds me in a very real and vivid manner, how damn lucky I really am. Thank you for your generocity in providing a lesson I really needed at this particular moment.

[bec]

I cried when I read this. I lost a baby 16 years ago. You never forget.

[Lala]

No, you never do forget. There are two waiting for me and one here with me on earth. I thank g-d for him everyday, even when I'm yelling. Lovely post.

Lala in Ottawa(for some reason I think you're Canadian too)

[Damon]

Excellent writing. It's my first time through, coming from a link on Susie's blog. Thanks for sharing with everyone, and I'll be sure to be back again and again.

[Cindy]

I read your post about your daughters earlier today. Throughout the day today, in moments of quiet, I found myself thinking about you and your family and how you realized the good that came from such sadness in your life. My grandmother several times stated to me, “God has a plan – and it isn’t for us to understand”. I have found that statement to be so true in my life. Your post today, in my opinion, is a wonderful tribute to your family and your faith in ‘the plan’ that is sometimes hard to understand.

Thank you for sharing. Thank you.

[Home Detention Lady]

What a great read. I need to be visiting you more often. It sounds like you have a close, beautiful, estrogen filled family - and it sounds like you're loving it. Thanks for the story.

[Effie]

Nilbo--I just recently stumbled across your blog and I have to say that I'm enjoying! I just figured out how to put links up on my blog--would you mind if I put yours up?

[Nils]

Effie, by all means ... love to welcome new friends! And to all you other kind people, thank you for your comments. Come back anytime ...

And Lala ... good hunch ... I live in a farmhouse in rural Prince Edward Island. "Rural Prince Edward Island" is redundant.

[Davey]

Speaking of meta... metatheatre, that is.

Those of you who have been lucky enough to see Nils' play, "The Truth About Daughters," will likely recognize part of this blog post as the source of one of the most emotionally powerful scenes in the play. As a collaborator on this work, I recall several conversations during which we discussed whether or not the scene should remain. The chief objection was that the story felt out of keeping with the rest of the piece, which is generally lighthearted. (Which is not, I hasten to add, a criticism.)

The reservations were justified. It was somewhat devastating to sit in the audience the first time Nils told the story, especially as I was sitting beside Joyce, especially as I knew the story to be true (albeit with a changed gender.)

The conversations continued, even after opening night. Unlike the other scenes, which generated copious amounts of laughter, this one generated little but stillness, the odd sniffle, and, towards the end of the scene, rustling in purses or coat pockets (for hankies.) I've always believed the audience sensed the truth in that story, even if they weren't certain of it. In the end, the scene stayed in, and "The Truth..." is all the more richer and deeper for it.

It just strikes me that, in case any doubt still lingers, all of the comments regarding this blog post reaffirms the choice to leave the scene in the play, and that, in the theatre, audience stillness has equal potency to audience laughter.

[Nils]

Davey - who directed "The Truth About Daughters" - was an integral part of every decision we made in bringing the play to the stage. We didn't always agree, and he won more than he lost. The decision to involve a scene based on this true-life story was risky, and it has become a part of the play that always touches a chord with the audience.

I believe it worked in part because the scene is truthful (one could argue "almost to a fault") ... and because I have never forgotten Davey's directions in performing the scene. It is performed with no - zero - emotion. The character sits on stage, numb ... spilling out the story without expression or emotion. You can hear a pin drop. In a show that is primarily a comedy, this scene has become my favourite.