Bella's Gift (23 page)

I sat in church for hours, weeping after that very painful but
liberating confession. At one point, a sweet elderly lady tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was all right. Smiling through the tears, all I could say was, “Yes, I’m going to be all right.”

Gretchen’s and the priest’s words completely changed my life. The fact that God loved
me
, even though I had fallen again and again, comforted me and ignited a fire deep within my soul. Despite all my failings, I was welcomed back into God’s embrace, and I knew joy that I had not felt for many years. He loved
me
and was waiting for
me
to come home. Forgiven. Free. A love so huge and unconditional was beyond my comprehension. That was when my spiritual journey began.

To this day I thank God with all my heart for His love and mercy. His mercy is infinite, and there is no sin so great that He will not forgive it. The image of the Father standing on the porch and waiting, longing for His lost prodigal son to return home, will always hold a special place in my heart, because that was me. My dear parents, who had prayed for years for me, rejoiced at my return home. I longed to know Christ. I wanted to love Him with all my heart, all my mind, and all my might. It felt so good to be home.

Years later, my spiritual director told me, “Karen, do you ever think God allowed that time for a reason? It made you the passionate woman you are today. Would Mary Magdalene have received the forgiveness of Christ if she had not sinned? Would King David have been filled with humility if not for his sins? Would Saint Augustine have been a great spiritual leader if it were not for his sinfulness? Often it’s the ones who have fallen that teach the greatest lessons in faith.” There’s no doubt that the dark time in my life fortified the convictions I now have.

When Rick and I met, we both knew we wanted more out of
our lives. After my confession, I believed the void we felt could only be filled with the grace of God. When people ask how we met, I tell them God brought us together. After we began to center our lives around our faith, everything changed. I look back on those dating days with a carefree nostalgia that always brings a smile to my face. We were freed and renewed.

Rick and I went to restaurants all over town, trying out every type of food. We went to sports games and concerts, but also had many coffee dates and simple picnics. We would spend hours talking about everything in the world, and we walked everywhere. We went to church and prayed together. He sent the most beautiful flowers: colorful roses, fragrant gardenias, and soft hydrangeas. We had our favorite haunts, shared dreams, and the same faith. It was perfect. And even when it wasn’t, we made it better.

One night, when Rick and I got into a squabble about something I can’t even remember, I insisted that he drive me home and refused to talk to him. At home, after my phone rang again and again, it stopped, and I thought he had given up. I cracked open a textbook on my bed and tried to focus. Fine. He didn’t have to call. Then I heard a clink at the window, and then another one. I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Rick was standing on the grass below with a handful of pebbles.

Opening the window a crack, I whispered, “Go away!”

He smiled. “Not a chance! I’m just going to sing louder and louder until you come down, Karen!”

I closed the window and crossed my arms. As I turned to walk away, the lyrics of “The Way You Look Tonight” drifted up to me. Turning, I opened the window again and said, “Quiet, you’ll wake up the neighbors!” He sang louder and changed the
lyrics to “I won’t go away until you come down here, just the way you look tonight.” By then I was smiling as I grabbed my coat. I couldn’t help it. He was just too sweet and lovable.

At a local hospital, I worked in a neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), which is a specialized area for preemies and newborns with serious complications or illnesses. It was a large, level III NICU. After working there for several years, I’d seen almost every type of case. From Siamese twins to babies born with all kinds of birth defects, illnesses, or disease, and babies born so small they could fit in the palm of my hand, we helped many special children get another shot at life. I loved working in the NICU and experienced medicine at its best when physicians and nurses worked together, using all their knowledge and skills to stabilize a child and save a life.

Many of the physicians and nurses poured their lives into taking care of those babies. They were special people, very caring and compassionate. I loved the intensity of the triage unit and having the opportunity to hold the babies in the convalescent rooms. Life in the NICU was demanding—on your feet all day, and always new skills, diagnoses, and treatments to learn. Double shifts were common, as the units were frequently short staffed, but I was happy to work overtime because I loved taking care of the babies. I was deeply moved and inspired by the parents who loved and cared for their infants unconditionally, and it broke my heart when babies were abandoned or had to go through the suffering of detox. To this day, I still think about many of the babies I cared for and wonder what their lives are like now and if they are healthy and happy.

On one of our dates, Rick asked me what it was like to work in the NICU. “It’s very rewarding work. We see a lot of complicated cases and help a good number of them. I’m lucky enough to work with the smallest babies, most of them with all sorts of health issues and disabilities. It’s been very eye-opening.”

Nodding, he asked what cases stood out in my mind. As I sat in that restaurant booth, curly haired, career driven, and so young, I remembered a special case. “I once treated a baby girl with anencephaly. She was born without a brain and lived for two days. Her parents were so kind and, do you know, they didn’t leave their baby alone for one minute of her two days of life? They held her, sang to her, and loved her for her entire short life. It’s their love that stands out so clearly in my mind. Their unselfish, giving love impressed upon my heart.” I started to say something more, then fell silent as I poked at my food, brow furrowed.

“What are you thinking?” Rick asked.

Looking back at him, I said, “I don’t think I could ever do that. Losing a child would be the worst thing in the world.” After a moment I added, “I just hope that never happens to me.”

Eight years later, I remembered that night and my words as I watched a grave being dug for a very small casket. In it was my son Gabriel Michael. Named after two of the great archangels, he now joined them in the heavenly host. Several months into my fourth pregnancy, as mentioned in a previous chapter, Gabriel was born prematurely with serious complications. He lived for two precious hours in our arms, knowing only love.

I remember lying in my bed after the funeral. Curled up in a ball, my eyes dried from countless tears and nights without
sleep, I stared at the wall. Watching shadows play from a candle on my nightstand and feeling completely drained and empty, I wanted to remain in the shadows, because I felt I couldn’t bear to live in the light. In those dark days, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel became a conscious effort. When you lose a child, it’s as though your heart has been wrenched out. You feel nothing, then everything. And it is so hard to hope.

Now, after years of marriage, I was so sure I would never be the same again. How could Rick and I be the same again? I’d heard that the death of a child is the hardest experience for a couple to go through. Now, I had no doubts that was true. By this time, Rick and I had weathered many storms together: campaigns, moves, and the daily grind of balancing professional and family life while going at what seemed like supersonic speed during campaigns. Nothing, however, was worse or more challenging to get through than losing Gabriel. A frightening tempest assailed the castle we had built around our marriage, and the rose garden I’d imagined vanished from memory.

We grieved differently, but we grieved together. Both of us felt the emptiness of loss and the acute sting of sorrow. No parent should have to bury a child. There is something so painfully unnatural about it. Angry with God and confused, I thought about how God had spared Abraham the pain of loss by staying his hand and saving Isaac’s life. Why did He not spare Gabriel’s life? I struggled. And I grieved.

But time healed us, and we found that there truly was a light at the end of the tunnel. We had our three children. We had our faith. We had each other. Through the dark journey in between, when all seemed hollow and without purpose, Rick and I stood by each other. We confided in each other, held each
other, opened up, and prayed together. Those open lines of communication and our shared faith kept us close as tragedy tried to drive us apart. I remembered that sacred vow we had made to each other and to God: “I promise to be true to you, in good times and in bad.” Losing Gabriel put these vows to the test and purified us, together, through the flames of grief.

During my pregnancy with Gabriel, I wrote a series of letters to my little son, and these letters later became the book
Letters to Gabriel
. I hoped the story of my grief would help other parents who knew the pain of losing a child. Publishing that book also became a way of healing for Rick and me. Together, we tried to live out our vows to love each other, even when we both were burdened by loss. Our emotions were raw, exposed, and honestly expressed. We learned deep lessons about gut-wrenching honesty in our relationship with each other and, in the process, plumbed even deeper into the mystery that lies at the heart of real love.

Bella’s diagnosis was particularly crippling. I had buried a child once. God could not allow that to happen again. I was sure I could not bear to lose another child, and for the first year of her life, I lived in fear. I reacted as a protective mother and went into survival mode. But as the years went on, I learned how to be a mother again, how to love and care for my child with different needs. Bella brought great joy to our family, and we adjusted to life with our little girl. But the truth is, I felt terribly isolated and alone.

Three years after her birth, Rick gave his testimony about Bella at the Iowa Thanksgiving Family Forum. He told the
audience that he had once felt disconnected from Bella, that he didn’t let himself fully love her until she was hospitalized several months after her birth. I was stunned and deeply hurt that he would have shared something so raw and private. Unfortunately, as he said earlier in this book, his words inaccurately expressed what had really gone on in his heart and mind. Rick had made it appear as though he did not love Bella, when in fact he did love her. What he’d failed to do was love her completely because the pain from the loss of Gabriel had left a huge hole in Rick’s heart. The thought of losing another child was unbearable to Rick, but this was the crucial point he left out of his answer at the Iowa Thanksgiving Family Forum.

Whereas I had carried the fear and pain of loss and translated it into protective and definite action, Rick had emotionally distanced himself from Bella because of that same fear. If he didn’t allow himself to embrace Bella completely, he thought he wouldn’t be hurt when we lost her. He insulated his heart, guarding it from letting her in until she was on death’s doorstep. I could see why he would be tempted to do this. It’s almost instinctual to protect your heart from pain. It’s a very normal human response to the overwhelming experience of pain, and losing a child is undoubtedly one of the worst types of pain a parent can endure. I knew, and after experiencing it in the NICU with so many parents, I understood. But it is also instinctual to love and fiercely protect your child.

At first I felt heartbroken that Rick would share his story about Bella in such a public fashion. This was an issue I thought should have been kept within the privacy of our family. I revolted at the thought of his even hinting he had not loved Bella, because it wasn’t true. I knew that his faith in God
and love for Bella were beyond question. His acceptance and understanding of Bella’s diagnosis was a process, as it was for me.

Rick could pray, and as heartbroken as he was, he was at peace with what was happening, but he put up a wall, emotionally separating himself from Bella. The distance allowed him to hold it together, but I was drowning in despair as I fought for Bella’s life. Pregnancy, childbirth, and nursing have a way of turning a mother into a grizzly bear.