Longing and sorrow never go away

Sarah and Terry Bain named their baby Grace. Stillborn on June 1, 2003, Grace was still born, as her mother now writes the word, signifying that Grace, though never alive outside the womb, remains with them in spirit.

I’m telling Grace’s story on Christmas Day because it speaks to the courage all parents assume when they bring forth a child. Would Mary, the mother of Jesus, have run from the manger if she knew what great suffering awaited her son? Never.

Sarah and Terry have not run from their grief, either. They have wept. And they have written. And through their words, they share with others the profound sorrow, and the profound joy, that happens when you say yes to the universe. Yes, I will bear the child.

At 3 a.m. on May 31, 2003, Sarah bolted awake and realized she had not felt the baby inside her move for 24 hours. Never a good sign in the final weeks of pregnancy. Not a good sign for a woman used to the task of bearing children. Her first, Carver, appeared after nine hours of labor. With her second, Sophia, she cut that labor time in half. But now, no stirring.

After the ultrasound later that morning, they knew the baby was dead. Sarah looked at Terry and said, “Something good must come of this. Her life cannot end like this with no meaning.”

They offered Sarah morphine to get her through the 24 hours of labor. She took it. But after a few hours, she said “No more.” She wanted to feel the pain of delivering this baby, the same way she’d delivered Carver and Sophia.

Terry and the children and others gathered in the labor room. Beth Jarrett, their pastor from St. Mark’s Lutheran Church in Spokane, the busiest woman on the planet, a young mother herself, stayed in the room for 36 hours — praying, counseling, crying and even swearing a bit at the injustice.

Grace arrived 14 minutes after noon — 3 pounds, 15 ounces, 17 inches long. Her skin was peeling away because she died in the womb, but this did not disguise her perfect features. They swaddled her in a blanket and the medical people said don’t touch her too much, she’s fragile. Sarah counted her fingers and toes and caressed her baby’s legs and belly, but she never turned Grace over to see the back of her. Too fragile? For what? Sarah regrets this now.

But she has no other regrets from that day. Not Carver, now 7, and Sophia, now 3, witnessing the birth of their sister and certainly not the blessing and especially not the anointing with holy oil of baby and mother and father. They order the oil still and call it “Grace’s scent.”

When the funeral-home men came, Pastor Beth walked the baby down the hospital hall and rode the elevator with Grace in her arms and rode in the funeral car with Grace in her arms and walked into the funeral home with Grace in her arms so she could tell the mother and the father later that Grace was held in her arms until the very last moment when she had to be handed over to the people who attend to the business of bodily death. The parents feel forever grateful.

They held the memorial service 11 days later. And then Sarah and Terry, both now 37, had to decide to stay in their busy lives, rather than curl up in a tight ball and sob forever. Terry, a freelance writer and English teacher, had just signed a contract with a New York publisher for a book about life as seen through a dog’s eyes. A humorous book.

How do you write humor when your child has inexplicably died in the womb? Sarah said, “You must.” The church offered the parish house where Terry did this writing. He was distracted, for a few hours each day, from the palpable burden of grief.

Terry’s book — “You Are a Dog: Life Through the Eyes of Man’s Best Friend” — was published this fall. It’s a different book because of Grace’s death, sorrow weaves through the humor, and it’s on its way to the bestseller list.

In the final chapter, the dog who narrates the book says: “When they come home, they are without the new baby. You knew the new baby was supposed to be coming home with them, but they are without the new baby. You could help them. You know you could. You were born, of course, of a litter. There was one, the one you knew as Third, who did not survive. She was born without ever moving, without ever breathing, without ever nuzzling or nursing or biting the loose skin at the back of your neck.”

Sarah wrote, too. She had written before the children came and planned to return to it when they were older. But the words poured forth; she could not stop them. She has published eight articles in online publications, and her story of Grace will be featured in Imagine magazine in February. She realized that speaking about stillbirth is still somewhat taboo in our culture. She realized parents here need a place to talk of this unspeakable loss. And so she has started a Spokane chapter of the MISS Foundation, an international support group for parents who have suffered infant loss.

Grace’s death created interesting new paths her parents never intended to walk upon. But Sarah and Terry would give it all up — the book, the online publications, the wellspring of strength and courage — to have Grace among them still. The longing never leaves. Grace would be 19 months old now; when Sarah sees little girls that age, she turns away in sorrow.

Longing and sorrow. Mary felt it 2,000 years ago, when she outlived a son who changed the history of humankind. Sarah feels connected to Mary today. “She was a broken mother, too,” Sarah says.

Grace has taught us, however, that breaking is often just the beginning of the rest of the story.