“Mrs. Rudberg?” a dark haired, petite young woman approached my bed. “I don’t want to upset you, but we need to know what to do with the body.”
I felt my much less rounded tummy and knew for certain that my baby was gone. “I don’t know.” I stammered. What should I say? Emotionally drained, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “You take care of it.”
As she bustled out of the room I stopped her with my voice. “What was it?” I quavered.
“It was a female.” She said matter-of-factly and continued out the door. Not “baby girl”, but “female”. The nightmare began a week earlier on a hot early June morning. There was the smell of blossoms in the air, the windows were open to the warm breeze. In my 34th week of pregnancy, I noticed my pre born baby, resting near my heart was very quiet. Too quiet. The active, hiccoough-y baby didn’t seem to be moving. Sometimes I’d give what I thought was her bottom, a nudge. “Come on Carrie or Matthew, wake up.” I’d say. When people asked me whether I wanted a boy or a girl (in 1977 we didn’t know the sex of our babies until they were born), I always said it didn’t really matter as long as the baby was healthy. Secretly though, I wanted a girl so our three-year old daughter, would have a playmate and could share the same room.
After two days, I feared the worst--my baby was either very sick or dead. The advice nurse told me I should come to the hospital immediately.
In the exam room, my husband Bill and I watched as the nurse carefully put the enlarged stethoscope on my tummy. After she listened—with many tries—I was sent to ultrasound. I watched the little image on the screen, not knowing what it revealed.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Rudberg.” The doctor said solemnly, “The baby is dead.” Both Bill and I sat there, stunned. He continued, “In order for your psyche to get used to this, we’ll let you go home and wait for a few days. The labor will most likely take place on its own, for the dead baby is toxic to your system. We will call you after a few days if labor doesn’t begin on its own and we will induce labor."
We drove home in silence. I stared out the window, not seeing anything.
Yet, how could this surprise pregnancy end in death? It was hard for me to remain still. Bill wanted to hold me, but I needed to move. To pace. It's gone. It's gone. My baby is gone! The tears would not stop.
I washed clothes the next day and hung them on the line that warm summer day. My family still needed clean clothing and meals prepared. Everyone I encountered when I went to the grocery store for milk acted as if nothing were wrong, as though everything were normal. Yet I also dreaded bumping into someone I might know, wanting to protect them from the bad news, too. Nor did I look forward to the impending labor that would only produce a corpse and not a living, breathing little one. They tried inducing labor for two days and it was ineffective, so they took the baby by Caesarean.
“I’m glad we didn’t set the crib up yet.” I remarked as we walked by what would have been Erika and the baby’s room. “What do I do with all of these things?” I gestured to the box of
brand new baby clothes I was given at a recent baby shower. I broke into tears and Bill held me tightly.
One day that summer, a friend asked if I could watch her baby. "Sure." I said. We had a trade-off babysitting arrangement with our children. The baby was fussy, so I held him close to me, shushing him and walking around the house with him in my arms. I wept along with the little one as I held him close.
Finally, after a year or so of mourning, I said to Bill. “I’m tired of talking about the baby. We need to give her a name.”
“We planned to name her Carrie if it was a girl. What about a middle name?”
We decided to call our baby, Carrie Lynn. That seemed to salve my hurt a little, though the wound was still there. Maybe I'll always feel sad about Carrie, I thought. I was haunted by the fact that she had no resting place, because I didn’t know what they did with her body. There was no marker to say she ever existed even though I believed she had gone to heaven.
I remembered the story of King David who, when his infant son was very ill, would not eat or drink. But when he was told the baby died he said, “Could I bring the child back to life? I will some day go to where he is, but he can never come back to me." I was comforted by the love Jesus Christ had for children. “Let the little children come to me........for the kingdom of
God belongs to such as these.” My little Carrie was in heaven. That I was sure of. I knew I’d see her someday. My heart still ached. My arms were still empty.
Years passed and I faced more losses and sorrow, but that sorrow also brought me closer to little Carrie Lynn. When I finally erected a marker with her name next to her father’s grave, I read her this letter.
Dear Carrie,
I am so glad this marker is finally here to say you lived a life--though it was short. I was not allowed to see your little face, but I know I will see you in heaven. I know the minute your life ended here on earth you were in God’s presence and I’m so grateful that this life on earth is not the end--but the beginning of eternity which never ends.
I look forward to looking into your eyes--that probably are blue--taking your hand and exploring heaven with you.
I love you Carrie Lynn, hugs and kisses from your mommy. She still loves you very much.
And I felt the presence of the blessed Comforter, sustaining me and assuring me of His holy presence.
