One of my favorite customers came in today, as everyday. However, today, it wasn’t her usual work break. She was on her way in to work after a funeral. Not just any funeral, but a funeral for an infant. A baby who only had less than a month on Earth. A few short weeks riddled with complications and pain. She told me about him when he was only a few days old. It was a friend of her daughter’s, a fairly young couple having their first child. They had the perfect nursery prepared, and had discussed with friends their child’s future. They had ultrasounds and checkups, and everything looked fine. However, mother’s intuition set in, and she requested a c-section. The doctor assured her it wasn’t necessary. Unfortunately the baby was larger than expected, and there were complications. In a chain reaction of events, this tiny person spent his short life on machines to keep him alive. My only connection to these people was hearing their story…yet, without knowing them, my heart breaks for them. There is this part of me that is angry for them. Part of me that wants to build them a time machine so that they can save their little one. So they can live the days they had envisioned for their family. But the rest of me understands that this all happened for a reason. That tiny person was here for a purpose, and while it is hard to understand it, or fathom something so painful without having experienced it, that purpose still exists. That he has left his mark on the world, the tiny ripple rolling out to touch strangers, like myself.
I could have had an older brother. My mom miscarried two years before I was born. I only had my mother’s stories of the experience, and that while the baby was too early for the doctors to tell, she knew it was a boy. From the moment I knew that, I wondered what life would have been like with him. Thought about how we could hang out at school together. How he would protect me from bullies. How we would probably get into fights and wrestle. How when we were older I could ride to school with him, hang out with his friends. My sister and I would still be all girly together, and she would have given him girl advice. Our lives would have been different. Not better or worse, just different. Would my sister and I have the passion for power tools and duct tape? Would we drool over laser levels and power saws? The question that always comes up is: would I even be here? There are just over twelve years separating my sister and I. After waiting ten, my parents would have probably not have kept trying after having a second. I remember my mother telling me once that part of the reason that things happened the way they did, was because they were meant to have me. Of course, my mother tells the story much more eloquently and spiritually, having lived the entire thing. In fact, I think that story has a lot to do with my spirituality today.
I have a feeling that little boy will affect me for some time. If nothing else, to remind me of the purpose of every thing.