“Expecting”

Kristi and I are expecting our fourth child. To some, it’s cause for exuberance; to others, a sign that we’re “moving on” from or “getting over” Emily’s cruel, untimely death. For my part, I want to be glad that a new arrival is coming, but it’s all caught up in the knowledge that we can’t take anyone in our lives for granted, and that others will read this pregnancy as evidence that we’re filling, or paving over, the hole that Emily’s death left in our lives.

Emily was such a wonderful child that, during her life, Kristi and I talked a lot about having another child. Since Emily’s death last year, part of me feels as though we're betraying her significance in our lives by having other children. And yet, people who know what has happened are still inappropriately buoyant about it: “That’s neat,” “That’s great,” “That’s wonderful!” It’s as though they’re loath to acknowledge that Emily existed at all, as though we’re dealing not with a personal loss so much as the attrition that happens in a small company. To these I stress, no child can replace Emily. Get a clue.

I suppose that, for most of us who have lost children, “expecting” is an alienating concept. Knowing what we know, what may we reasonably expect? Why should we have faith? At this point, I see no reason. Of course, pragmatically, religion provides some in society the moral guidance they might otherwise lack, while faith may give some broader meaning to their lives. But until you've experienced the loss of a child, don't come to me with supposed words of wisdom. I’ve given up all delusions that God answers prayers or cares about us mortals during our time on Earth. To those who tell me prayer is comforting, imagine your daughter falling ill. Imagine your daughter losing her heartbeat. Imagine praying for divine intervention. And then imagine a doctor pronouncing your daughter dead. To these I stress, Don’t speak of prayers and blessings, of faith and God. You know not what you say. Platitudes are comfort only for the ignorant.

In the past year, people who have, near as I can tell, wanted to comfort themselves as least as much as us have offered banalities such as “God wanted her,” “God knows best,” “She’s in a better place,” “God needed an angel,” and “She’s an angel now.” Does this mean God gives sweet little girls influenza and robs them from their loving mothers through the miracle of cardiac arrest? Does this mean God gave Emily the flu to spare her a courageous battle with some future illness, and to spare us the pleasure of her presence in our lives? To provide all who knew and loved her an invaluable life lesson? To underscore the notion that "God works in mysterious ways"? To deny that Emily was an angel on Earth? If so, then God is a brute. And if he does nothing to help, as the ongoing tsunami tragedies suggest, he’s of no use at all. The best we can do is try not to worry.

Hoping for a healthy, intelligent, kind, beautiful baby, as all of my daughters have been,

Ross