Tiny Handprint

At sixteen weeks gestation with our sixth child, I awoke one morning to the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong. "I think I need to head to the doctor's this morning," I alerted my husband over the phone.

"Are you going in with all of the kids? Are you okay? Should I come home?" Dan asked, his voice strained.

"I just feel strange," I replied, "but I can get the neighbor to stay with the little ones while I run to the doctor's. I'll call you from there if it's anything serious." I didn't want to upset him if there really wasn't anything wrong.

As I sat in the waiting area, I kept trying to feel any sort of movement in my womb, even the tiniest flutter. "Gretchen, why don't you come on back now," the nurse summoned me. I was trained as an obstetric nurse, so my fears compounded as the nurse listened with the Doppler for the baby's heartbeat. Her expression relayed she found none.  "Let me try it," I insisted. I ran the wand over my slightly bulging stomach, but the only beat I detected was the rhythm of my own heart.

"We'll have you head over for an ultrasound," the nurse said. "They'll see what's going on for sure."

I phoned Dan and he reached the doctor's office before the scheduled ultrasound. There we viewed with sadness the motionless image of our baby, her hands hanging straight at her sides.

"She probably died about two weeks ago, judging by her size," remarked the radiologist as she studied the form of our tiny baby in the darkened room.

Dan squeezed my hand as the obstetrician stepped in. "In a situation like this, the safest thing for you to do is to have a D and C as soon as we can schedule you."

I knew the soul of my sweet baby was nestled close to Jesus in heaven, but the idea of having her sucked from my womb was not what I had envisioned for her tiny body. After some thought and discussion with Dan we went ahead and scheduled the surgery.

"What will happen to my baby's body?" I asked the obstetrician. "I want to have a burial for her."

"Well, someone tried it a few years ago and was able to get the remains, but you have to jump through a lot of hoops. It's possible," he said, but he didn't sound confident.

I felt peculiar asking for my baby's remains, but I was determined. In calling the lab to find out what was protocol, I came in touch with a lab technician named Marcia.

"I had a miscarriage several years ago," she confided to me. "I really wish I would have had a burial for my baby. I think what you're doing is great and I will help from this end to see that you get your baby's remains."

With that bit of comfort, I went in for the scheduled surgery. As I lay in the pre-op room, I clutched my husband with one hand and my small wooden bead rosary in the other—both of great comfort. "Can you make sure they don't take away my rosary?" I begged my husband. "I'm really afraid."

Continued on page 2: My instinct screamed, 'Don't let go of her!' »