by a Special Correspondent
“St. Teresa [of Avila] always in touch with God, said, “Lord, why this?” He answered, “That is the way I treat my friends.” Teresa came back, “Then no wonder You have so few! …”
My grandson Peter died on Thursday 26 July, the Feast of Saints Martha, Mary and Lazarus. He was sixteen weeks old, a perfect little boy. He was as long as his mother’s hand, and died as soon as he was born. I am dating his life, of course, from his conception.
His mother was rushed to hospital in an ambulance, and lost a litre and a half of blood. Despite this she managed to baptise him, giving him the name of his father and grandfather. We had already researched the baptism of those born too soon- it is important, it seems, to rupture the sac first. However my daughter’s parish priest said later that the little one was already covered by the baptism of desire.
Both parents are 38 and Peter is their third child. They did not postpone a family to pursue their careers or travel- they did not meet until they were in their thirties.
Although this is not the theme of this article, it is worth noting that in an age when Catholic dances, Catholic tramping clubs and Catholic tennis clubs have almost ceased to exist, and when youth groups cater mainly for teenagers, it is not easy for devout Catholics in their twenties and thirties to find a Catholic husband or wife. It is something we should all give a great deal more thought to.
We had known for weeks that Peter could not live outside the womb. My daughter was thrilled at the prospect of another baby, testing for pregnancy at the earliest possible moment. But in the course of a routine check, it was found that the baby was accumulating excess fluid. The most common causes of this are Downs Syndome or Edwards syndrome (the latter is a terrible affliction which causes multiple deformities and no child with it has ever lived longer than a year). It was neither. The hospital was till checking for obscure chromosomal mixups when Peter was born, suffering none of them.
But although the cause was unknown, we were told that the little one could not survive. Water accumulating in the chest prevented the lungs from growing. By the time the water could be drained off at twenty weeks, it would be too late for the lungs to develop.
My daughter remained resolved to continue with her pregnancy. It was enormously difficult, partly because it was in a sense more “pro Life” to end a doomed pregnancy and try for a healthy child. She was very adversely affected by pregnancy and suffered constant nausea and extreme fatigue, which made it hard to run her home or give her existing children the interactive play and outings to the beach and park which were so important for their own well being. Her husband, a dedicated nurse working shifts, was also cooking, cleaning and doing laundry – hard indeed with no living baby at the end of it all. I did not realise how much she was affected until 24 hours after a massive blood loss she was zipping round Auckland saying she felt fine. This was shortlived; a day later she was back in hospital, with an infected arm, caused by the drip. And in her first admision both her wedding and engagement rings got lost.
For many years I have infuriated my nearest and dearest by quoting Hebrews 12:6 (“whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth.”) This time I didn’t dare.
We were then confronted with the question as to what to do with the little body. His parents took him home- they were touched by the fact that the hospital provided a tiny bassinet in a small box.
Until 20 weeks, the child has no legal existence and the state has no requirements. There seemed to be three choices – to leave him to the hospital to ‘dispose of’, to bury him in his parents’ or grandparents’ garden, or to cremate him. We decided against the gardens, because sooner or later we would all shift house, and leave him behind. My idea, which was adopted, was to cremate him and keep the ashes until I die myself, when he will be enclosed in my coffin and buried with me in a Catholic cemetery. Any family could do this, simply keep the ashes until the next family funeral, which in the natural order of things is likely to be that of a grandparent. The church teaches that the dead may be cremated, but that the ashes should be buried in consecrated ground.
Cremation cost $140. I mention this because I can imagine young parents might well be discouraged by imagining vast funeral costs.
My daughter’s first child was born at 27 weeks, weighing 700 grams. She looked like a skinned rabbit – a very small skinned rabbit. She began life in neonatal intensive care. My time there with her and my daughter was one of the formative phases of my life. An important part of therapy for neonates is the ‘kangaroo cuddle,’ where the baby, tubes and all, is held against the mother, bare skin against bare skin, with a blanket for warmth. This was learned from the example of peasant women, who preserve the lives of tiny premature babies in this way. Mum had the most kangaroo cuddles, but dad and nana had their share.
Kangaroo Cuddles help prem babies
That little girl is now five and in her first year at a Catholic school – feisty, loving, intelligent, she runs like the wind. Because she was born before her lungs were fully developed, she is asthmatic, but this does not diminish her incessant activity and zest for life.
Not all the ‘premmies’ were so fortunate; some went home with oxygen machines, others were damaged in body or mind. Some did not go home at all. I have a picture of that tiny newborn on the wall, a daily, hourly reminder of the mercy of God.
We were told that there was a 50% chance of the same thing happening again, but her little sister went to term and was fine.
I was forty when I had my fifth child. At some point I had asked my husband if we should consider amniocentesis. He said that there was no point, because nothing could be done if anything was wrong. My husband is a doctor. These words, the words of pure faith, were a defining moment in my life.
We still do not know why Peter miscarried and his sister was so premature. The latest theory is that it is a rare condition of the blood, from which some women suffer only in pregnancy. The uncertainty casts a shadow over longed for little ones to come.
It is impossible to put oneself in the position of a mother carrying a child who cannot live. I wrote to a canon lawyer asking for guidance but got no reply. Must the mother carry the child to term? If the child is covered by the baptism of desire, what is gained by an extended pregnancy?
It is only too easy for people like myself, far past childbearing age, to fall into a heartless and implacable pro-life witness without in any way sharing the terrible costs sometimes involved. Are we ready to offer material and practical help to children born in poverty, or parents whose pro-life witness means a lifetime of caring for a disabled child?
Amid all these questions, one thing is certain. Little Peter is the one member of my family who is most certainly in heaven. I ask him to watch over me and the rest of us as we make our uncertain and tangled way in the same direction. I will go to my death more joyfully because I know he is waiting for me.
Our names will both be on our headstone. Under my name will be the words.
Jesus Mercy. His name will bear the words,
In Paradiso.
