A nurse who had only come into my room to record all my belongings asked me how old Sloane was. When we got to talking, I shared the memory box that the maternity ward had made for us. She clutched her heart as she looked at the sweet pictures of our baby girl in a pretty little satin dress holding a green rosary. As I told her how grateful I was for those pictures and the incredible service the staff was providing, she cried. We cried together. Two strangers understanding life is precious and worthy of mourning.
I'm still in the hospital, asking God what he wants to show me through all of this. I suppose his Divine Wisdom will reveal itself for years to come. But the first thing I've seen is that a Culture of Life still exists. These last few years have been so divisive, I've lost the ability to readily see goodness and beauty in much outside of my Catholic bubble where I feel most safe.
But when a beautiful baby dies, unless you're being political about it, it is tragic. And I think for most people, life does matter.
When I instinctively clutched the forearm of a nurse as we discovered there was no heartbeat, I saw this. She clutched my hand back. I saw that life matters when I noticed tears in her eyes.
I saw this in the many hands that held my own or let me brace against them when I was in pain. I saw this when a nurse brushed the sweaty hair out of my face, smoothing it back like my own mother would. Everybody breaking through COVID fears to comfort me.
My nurses even convinced security to allow my husband to visit and hold Sloane one last time against current regulations.
I praise God that He let me live. I praise God that my daughter can sit on the lap of Mary and bring my prayers directly to Our Lord. I praise God for this memory of love from complete strangers. Love is not part of their job description, but they love so well.
