A Gift From Beyond the Grave

**originally published 12/18/20**

When I was pregnant with my first child I got diagnosed with gestational diabetes a few weeks before Christmas. It’s not a huge complication compared to everything that can go wrong during pregnancy, but I thought it was a sign that another tragedy was imminent.

Both of my parents died the year before. My dad in February, my mother in June. 

Although they died of different causes, they were both unconscious in their last days. I watched both of them take their last breaths in the hospital without any of the heartfelt final words that, based on movies, I thought we were supposed to have. My mother had MRSA at the time, so we were discouraged from even touching her.

After seeing that passage into death twice, I wondered how any of us manage to stay alive. Once a new life started growing inside me, that wonder became a constant worry.

In my experience, pregnancy is a nine-month anxiety ride. Everywhere I turned I heard dire warnings that basically anything and everything would directly affect my child’s development, perhaps damaging him forever. 

The food I ate, the way I sat, the temperature of a bath, the air I breathed, the thoughts in my head – all risks for disaster. 

To brace myself against the unknown, I did not put any vision or hope into the other side of birth. Instead, I reminded myself daily that it could all go south any moment. 

My mind was always on my womb, sending the message, “Stay alive, stay alive, stay alive.” I would be going through my workday, doing complex tasks, but inside my head the mantra constantly played.

The gestational diabetes diagnosis sent me over the edge. I thought, “This is it. This is it. It’s happening again. I know how this goes and it’s all going to end in the worst way.”

My fears drove me to a level of such spiritual distress that I had to break a promise I made to my mother years earlier.

My mother had Multiple Sclerosis, the type known as primary progressive. She was diagnosed a few months after I was born. Over the years she lost the use of her legs – and then other body functions. Like a lot of diseases, it robbed her of the things that she loved to do. 

Walking, running, dancing, swimming – just about any joyful movement.

Perhaps because of her experiences with prolonged, debilitating disease, my mother was very comfortable talking about death and faith and the possibilities of the multiverse. 

A frequent thought she shared went something like this, “I’m not afraid of death. I know that when I die I’ll be so happy to dance again. I think I’ll just go on a run for a few years. Maybe swim in the ocean and never stop.

“I also understand that time in the afterlife moves at a different pace than this life. Years can pass in this life and for those on the other side, it might seem like just a few minutes.

“So when I die, if you don’t hear from me, that’s why. I’ve got things I want to do. Don’t bother me, okay?”

The last thing I wanted to do was impose on her heavenly hereafter. She deserved some time to do what she wanted. I promised I’d let her be dead in peace. But eighteen months into her eternal rest, I needed my mother real bad. 

My mom was the only person I ever knew who could quell my existential angst. I couldn’t conquer the fear that new life just wasn’t in the cards all by myself.

On a dark, rainy December Saturday evening I drew a deep, hot bath. I filled it full of good smells, and I lit candles around the room. 

I climbed in, closed my eyes, and screamed inside my head, “MOMMY!!”

I imagined her running through the surf on some heavenly Hawaiian beach and saw myself waving my arms to her. I called out, “HELP! Help! I’m scared your grandson won’t make it!!”

I thought about my promise and said, “I’m sorry to disturb you. I know it may seem like you just got there, and I know this is probably a real bummer, but I NEED YOU. I need you to give me a sign about this baby. If there is any truth to the spirit, to the afterlife, NOW IS THE TIME TO SHOW ME.”

I expanded my mind’s audience to include any Divine entity, “I’m talking to you, too, Universe. I’m not playing around anymore. I’m one little human and I can’t take this awful suspense – have some sympathy on what it’s like to not know. Will anything good happen or is it just more sadness on the way? GIVE ME A SIGN!”

And then I opened my eyes and waited. I listened for thunder, twinkling bells, laughing voices. I heard nothing but the rain pelting the window. 

I looked into the water for a vision. Nothing. Just my great, big, pregnant belly full of mystery.

I tried being patient and focusing harder. Minutes passed. 

Nothing. 

I said out loud, “Fine. Fine. Fine. That’s how it is.” 

I got out of the bath, went to bed, and pulled a blanket of despair up to my chin.

I had never tested my faith with such fervency. I had thought about it, but never broke the glass on the “Show Me A Sign” alarm. That night, it seemed the test failed. 

Any faith I ever had in the past unraveled. All memories of sacred, spiritual experiences drained down to embarassing, hollow pantomimes.

The next days were dark. Literally. 

Northwest winter days are already short, but thick clouds and heavy rain obliterated any chance of a few rays of sun. My husband and I drove the long commute to and from work through holiday traffic on a Monday of eternal grayness. 

But when we got home, there was an unexpected package on the front step. 

It was from my aunt, my mother’s sister, the one who took care of my mother in her final years.

I opened the package to find a present wrapped in cheery yellow paper and a perfectly tied pastel ribbon. There was also a card. 

In her beautiful handwriting, my aunt wrote,“Before your mother died, we were shopping and she saw this adorable outfit and said, ‘Someday, someone is going to have a little boy and I’ll give her this.’

“Well, that someone was you!

“Here is a gift from your mother.”

Inside the present I found a baby outfit, size 9 months.

It was my sign. 

It just took a little longer than I wanted. 

I guess even Heaven has to deal with shipping delays.

***

I’ve shared this story several times over the years. The events are always the same, but the meaning grows.

Lots and lots and lots of people have lost loved ones in 2020. 

It’s no rare thing to deal with the grief of losing family, but that doesn’t minimize the pain.

And even people who haven’t had significant illness, death, or tragedy strike this year are struggling to believe that things may get better.

The detail about my mother’s gift from beyond the grave that opened the door to hope for me was that the outfit my mother chose was for a 9 month old. 

Not a newborn. 

I decided that if the gift was, indeed, a sign, then it meant that my son would at least live as long outside my body as inside.

My son is now 15. The outfit doesn’t fit anymore. I still won’t get rid of it, though. It’s a talisman.

In my fear and sadness, I couldn’t let myself imagine a time beyond the transition of his birth. I hadn’t let myself even imagine holding him. 

But now I think that little outfit was a reminder that positive visions, the mental pictures of loving happiness yet-to-come, can help us make it through times of uncertainty.

The wounds of shock and trauma hurt a lot. So, I tend to prepare myself for the worst, to guard against the pain, rather than risking foolish optimism. 

Looking back on this experience, I think I sometimes risk foolish pessimism instead. I can squander the moments for joy under the guise of realism.

Back then, I didn’t need a guarantee that all would be well forever. I just needed help believing it was possible to experience something other than devastating loss.

My heart is with my family, my friends, and all the people I don’t know who are struggling with sadness and uncertainty this season. 

And even though she may get mad at me for bothering her ONE MORE TIME, I’ve sent a request to my mother and all the loved ones in the great beyond to please send a sign to remind us that love and laughter and healing are in our future.