Even Death Bears Fruit

"The death of the Beloved bears fruit in many lives. You and I have to trust that our short little lives can bear fruit far beyond the boundaries of our chronologies. But we have to choose this and trust deeply that we have a spirit to send that will bring joy, peace, and life to those who will remember us."

~ Father Henri J.M. Nouwen, Life of the Beloved

It was just another normal day in clinic. One routine prenatal visit after another- confirming due dates, checking blood pressures, measuring fundal heights, listening to fetal heart beats, deciphering for parents whether boy or girl on ultrasound, and counseling mothers on signs and symptoms of labor. And then, in the midst of routine came the unexpected. In the most unsettling way, the safety of routine often blinds us to the danger of the unexpected, hitting us at once and without warning...

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It's the moment that every mother fears and the moment every obstetric provider dreads. That moment when two heartbeats collide instead of three. That moment when both the mother and the provider's heart rates accelerate in a synchronous staccato of anticipation when finding the baby's heart beat is taking longer than expected...only to come to a sudden halt as their hearts fall into the depths of their inner being upon recognizing that the baby's heart is no longer beating.

This past week a young woman lost her first child inside her womb at only 17 weeks gestation. Both a distinct privilege and an immense burden, being with a mother during this moment of suffering and stillness is, I believe, one of the most difficult realities of my job as a physician. A unique reality in which death occurs within, and not just among, the living. A brutal experience of irony in which one still goes through the life-giving process of birth to experience not the cry of a lively newborn but the silence of a stillborn child.

In these moments of great suffering and sadness it can be difficult to believe there is still life-giving fruit in the arid and desolate desert in which we find ourselves. In reading the words of Father Henri Nouwen this week, I was reminded that this child was "beloved" before his heart ceased to beat and before he exited his mother's womb. I am reminded that "[his] death...[will bear] fruit in many lives." I am reminded that this "short little [life] can bear fruit far beyond the boundaries of [his] chronology" of a mere seventeen weeks. And I am reminded that I must "choose this and trust deeply that [he has] a spirit to send that will bring joy, peace, and life to those who will remember [him]." 

I know all of this is true as I witnessed the mother hold her baby in her arms with the same tender love and care of that of any other mother. I know all of this is true as she smiled at her baby's footprints indelibly marked in ink, trying not to wash them away with the tears streaming down her face. I know all of this is true as we laid the baby in a wooden casket in reverence of a precious life whose journey was cut too short. And I know all of this is true because through His suffering and death, He laid down His life to offer us the greatest gift, the greatest flowering fruit that burgeons amidst the thorns of death.

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This Good Friday I had the opportunity to participate in one of the Church's greatest Lenten traditions of Stations of the Cross. In a procession commemorating Christ's passion, we walked from house to house in the small community of Lucinda. Though I have participated in this ritual many times in the past, this time held special significance for me because I had the opportunity to see the homes where members of the local church and some of the patients and workers in the hospital live. This experience gave me a glimpse into the lives of my neighbors here in Honduras. In a humble display of honor and gratitude, each family set up a plastic chair with a white tablecloth, flowers, and a burning candle. Carrying the crucifix with us from house to house, at each of the fourteen stations, we remembered His sacrifice. In the small town of Lucinda, which means "light," we were reminded of the "light" that waits for us, the great joy that stems from great suffering.

Thank you for all of your continued prayers and support- I wish you and your families a happy and blessed Easter Sunday!