Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains (19 page)

A few days later, as I finished seeing my last patient of the afternoon, I exited the room and was met by Bonnie, who looked worried.

“You better go down to your office, Dr. Larimore.”

I handed her the patient's chart and walked down the hall, wondering what would be waiting for me. As I entered the office, I saw Barb sitting with her face in her hands. As I entered the room, in rapid succession Barb looked at me, burst into tears, stood, crossed the room, and fell into my arms, softly weeping.

“What's the matter, honey?”

She just held on to me, as if for dear life, and began to sob. I guided her across the room, and we sat down on the sofa. After a few moments of deep, soul-wrenching sobs, Barb began to compose herself and was able to get a few words out between continuing sobs as she explained, “This morning, after you left for the office, I noticed that our baby wasn't moving like usual. I came to see Rick this afternoon, and he listened to my lower abdomen with the fetascope. Walt, he couldn't hear the heartbeat!” Barb dissolved once again into uncontrollable tears. I found myself holding on to her for dear life.

My mind was swirling with the possibilities. Maybe the baby was just lying below the placenta and couldn't be heard. Maybe Rick had the fetascope on the wrong part of Barb's abdomen. I couldn't even begin to think about the possibility that our little baby was no longer alive. It was
not
possible. O God! I thought, don't let it be!

I sat on the office sofa and pulled Barb onto my lap, hugging and holding her close for what seemed like an eternity, until I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Rick. He gave my shoulder a squeeze and turned to pull up a chair. “You guys OK?”

We both shook our heads.

Rick nodded. “I can't imagine the shock this is to you both.”

We nodded.

“Well, hopefully the position of the baby is such that I'm just not hearing the heartbeat. I've certainly had that happen before, and I know you have too, Walt. But I'd like Barb to go to the hospital. Patty called over and asked Shirley if she'd stay late and do an ultrasound so we can know for sure.”

Rick paused for a moment to let his words sink in. I had always admired his sensitivity and compassion to others, and now I was experiencing it firsthand — and it led me to appreciate and admire him even more than I already did.

Our bedroom was pitch-dark — maybe darker than it had ever been. Barb had finally cried herself to sleep. I was too numb to sleep — or even to cry. I just lay there with the events
of the day swirling in my head.

Shirley had found our little one lying quietly against the back wall of Barb's womb, legs crossed Indian-style and arms resting gently on a chest devoid of any heartbeat — a little body whose person had apparently left for what I hoped was his or her heavenly home.

Rick and Ray Cunningham had come to see us at the hospital. They had recommended we consider a D&C, but Ray suggested we wait a day.

Ray's words echoed in my head. “I need to be absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, 100 percent sure, that your little one is no longer with us.”

I thought his choice of words was sensitive and caring. I've heard less compassionate doctors use much harsher language with patients.

He continued. “There's no harm to wait the night. We'll do a serum pregnancy test in the morning, and if it shows falling levels of the HCG hormone and the ultrasound still sees no heartbeat, we can do the D&C then. I just could never forgive myself if — ” He didn't finish the statement, and he didn't have to.

I think both Rick and Ray knew what we knew: our child was gone. Nevertheless, I appreciated their care, concern, and conservative approach. I, too, would never want to purposefully end the life of a little person — no matter how small.

Now, without any doubt, it would have been emotionally much easier to have had the D&C that night and gotten it behind us. But we both agreed it was better to be safe than sorry.

I found myself thinking, for the first time in my life and career, about the fathers of babies lost to miscarriage or, as was our case, what we doctors euphemistically called an “intrauterine demise.” I had cared for dozens of moms who had lost babies. I always tried to be sensitive to their loss and was thankful for the special time of ministry these losses provided for me as a family physician. Every woman handled the loss of a child differently, but every case was just as tragic a loss of life as any other.

For some reason, however, I had never considered the loss from the father's perspective. I guess I had assumed the loss of the baby would be less painful and less agonizing for him. That night, I realized how horribly blind and wrong I had been. I wondered how many dads I had failed. And I was thankful for a medical partner who was so much more sensitive than I.

Barb and I had prayed together before she went to sleep. I prayed as we embraced. I had no idea what to pray. Should I pray that the ultrasound was a mistake? If it was not mistaken in its grave finding, should I pray that God would bring our little one back? He was a God who
could
resurrect the dead. He
had
done it before. Why not now?

Or should I pray in faith, believing for a miracle in order that God could be praised for what only he could do? Or would a prayer like that be presumptuous and presuming? I didn't know — and I still don't.

But I do remember praying that we could and would eventually accept God's will for us and for our little one. I prayed for wisdom for Rick and Ray. I prayed for our little one and thanked God that I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that one day in the future, in another home — a heavenly home — I would meet and hug and hold him or her. With that prayer and that assurance, I fell into what would turn out to be a fitful night of intermittent slumber.

The next morning was somber in our home. We tried to be cheerful for the kids, but it was hard. Barb took Kate to preschool at the local Head Start, and I took Scott over to the Tanager's home. Laura agreed to watch Scott for the day, and Sam would watch him that afternoon. “The boys will have a lot of fun together,” she assured me as I left him at her home.

Barb bore the discomfort of a distended bladder one more time during the ultrasound examination. Our baby looked no different in his or her watery coffin — still tiny, still quiet. No movement. No heartbeat. No hope of a birth or becoming a living, breathing part of our family. Together Barb and I said good-bye. Before Louise transported Barb back to the operating room, where Rick and Ray were waiting, we softly kissed, our lips moistened with our mingled tears.

Once we were home, Barb slept all afternoon and into the evening. Laura called to check on us and kindly offered to keep Kate and Scott for the night. I was grateful for her kindness. Having a quiet night at home without the children would be just what the doctor ordered for Barb. What I didn't realize was how much
I
needed some processing time as well.

Through the afternoon, I paced and paced. I was wrestling with so many emotions as Barb slept. I was angry and wounded and in pain. I asked God why he would do such a thing. I wondered out loud what we had done to deserve this. Was it punishment for doing something wrong? Was it some cruel or even deserved retribution for straying from an unreachable standard? Had Satan inquired of God for the right to take our little one and been given that permission? Had I failed in some way to be the husband or father or doctor I should have been?

Finally, at about sundown, my anger began to dissipate, and I was able to sit in my overstuffed quiet-time chair. I reviewed what I believed was true. I
knew
in my heart of hearts that my God was loving and compassionate and caring. I
knew
his good character. I
knew
that if I simply loved him and sought to fulfill his purposes,
all things
would turn out for good.

Then, ever so reluctantly, I contemplated what I hadn't given much consideration to before. Deep in my soul, the truth dawned that “all things” included “bad” things as well as “good” things. As I thought more about this, I came to the realization that if God is really God — and I'm convinced he is — then he is sovereign over
all
events. I had heard folks say, “God did not cause this or that calamity, but he can use it for our good.” This statement or belief now seemed foolish to me. In fact, I thought to myself, it undermines the hope it is meant to give! If God does not have the power to stop an event from happening or if he is surprised by an event, then how can we expect him to use it for our good? He can only do so if he is indeed omniscient and omnipotent. I concluded that God indeed either caused or allowed
all
events, or he wasn't God.

I opened my Bible to the book of Romans and silently read: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.”

As I closed my Bible, I closed my eyes and thought about how Jesus had pleaded with his Father from the Garden of Gethsemane to take from him the cup of suffering and crucifixion. His Father, whose love for him was infinite, said no. Then I understood. I
finally
got it. If God predestined
me
to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, then I too would be called to pain and suffering.

I felt deeply comforted as I realized that in
all
things, even apparently bad things, God
would
work good — as long as I loved him and as long as I was called according to his purpose. A peace settled over my soul as I acknowledged that my Creator was equally powerful to, able to, and willing to stitch the patchwork of my life into a beautiful quilt. I also began to accept the fact that many of my “why” questions were not going to be answered, at least not on this side of heaven.

My time of wrestling with the Lord didn't change my heartbreak over the death of our child, but it forever changed me. Through that long and agonizing afternoon and evening, I came to know him and his character in a new and a deeper way — not an easier way, that's for sure. Somehow, my madness progressed to sadness and then, mysteriously and almost imperceptibly, into gladness. I experienced a deep joy in my spirit — a comfort I had never felt before — intermingled and bonded with one of the most searing and intense pains I had ever known.

It was almost as if I had been pulled from the burning remains of a fiery crash — led, or maybe even dragged, from an angry, painful place. It was like I was a burn patient experiencing the desperately needed relief of a divine, cooling salve. Only a burn patient could understand the joy of a
burn soothed and cooled. And for the first time in my life, I sensed a glorious sadness — a difficult-to-understand joy that provided a magnificent stillness. Silence and serenity began to penetrate and to fill my soul and, even in my deepest pain, to heal my broken heart.

Nestling more deeply into my chair, I felt assured that, despite the horror of what had happened and the difficulty of the road that lay ahead, an inexpressible comfort and indefinable peace would be there with me — every step of the way.

This wasn't the first time I had experienced this form of God's love and care — what I've come to see as a splendid sorrow, a dreadful kindness, a ruthless mercy. I had first become aware of his “severe mercy” with Kate's diagnosis of cerebral palsy and her subsequent surgeries and disabilities, but this was the first time I had walked through the death of an immediate family member. I understood for the first time the terrible throb and awesome ache that accompanies the loss of a child. Yet in the midst of that anguish I can still remember, even today, the completeness of the peace that surrounded me in that moment. It was a shocking and unexpected form of grace — but, as I was to learn all too soon, this wouldn't be the last time I would be called on to walk this path.