My sister's youngest daughter wrote this for school about Abby. It touched me deeply.
Amanda Maxwell
Mr. Zverloff
Literary Analysis and Composition II
October 9, 2014
Being Heard Without Taking a Breath
When I was seven years old, my aunt and uncle were expecting their second child. I was impatiently waiting to play with a little girl cousin, and the whole family was holding their breath in anticipation. We were all so excited because the doctors had told my aunt she would never have children, and soon she would have two! When my aunt went into labor, the hospital discovered that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. Their daughter Abby was born later that evening, lifeless. Words cannot express the pain it brought to their family. I was young at the time, but the events that followed will remain etched in my mind forever. These events taught me life lessons that I would have never learned just sitting in the classroom. Because of Abby’s death, I believe that unborn children have value.
As my aunt’s family grieved, they sought to give Abby’s short time on Earth a purpose. Our families drew closer together through the crisis, so I would spend a lot of time at their home. From literally around the corner, since I was playing with my cousin down the hall, I listened attentively as my aunt talked with my mom about ways they kept Abby’s memory alive. At first, my aunt had little remembrances around the house, like a bear made out of the blanket that they held her in at the hospital. Soon, they contacted other families who had similar circumstances, and found out that there is whole community of people who were brought together through the death of their children. The MISS Foundation’s online support group walked with my aunt’s family, helping them where we could not. Losing a child is a grief so strong that only those who have gone through it themselves can fully understand. Spurred by this realization, my aunt began helping other parent’s grief by connecting online, and was even invited to share her story at the Emergency Nurse’s Association National Convention. I watched as my aunt worked through her pain to help others with their own. She likes to share a dream she had, where Abby threw her over a wall and she landed in her car on the other side. Even at such a young age, I identified, in every respect, the symbolism. It was as if Abby’s death was the catalyst for her to go out in the world and make a difference. No doubt about it, Abby had literally thrown her mother into her life’s work. It did not take the pain away, but it showed how it could be turned into hope. Before long, Abby’s story had touched thousands of people’s lives.
However, more lives were yet to be changed. Several years after Abby’s death, with little hope of biologically having any more children, my aunt and uncle decided to adopt a little girl. They did not have a lot of money, so they found many ways to fund the adoption. Each fundraising event shared the bittersweet story of the stillborn little girl who propelled her parents towards adoption. One of these fundraisers was a garage sale, held on an overcast fall morning. I remember shivering in the cold, drinking the sweet lemonade my cousin had made to make his contribution to the effort. I stood in amazement, watching as strangers, not just friends, came to support the addition to the family. The adoption took years to complete, so even the adoption process itself kept revealing to me how important Abby was. Her death was raising awareness for adoption! Right in front of me, I again was witnessing how something so tragic was being transformed into something beautiful. Of course, there were several naysayers who were afraid that the adoption would hurt them more than not having a child, or would ignorantly point out that they were just “replacing” Abby with another child. That was hardly the case. One child can never replace another, but when two year old Hope arrived she brought back something Abby took from her family when she left – a daughter on Earth.
Hope now has loving parents, and a big brother who waited a long time for a sister. She is the cutest little kindergartener that brings joy to all of our lives. At first glance, it is hard to believe that she spent the first few years of her life in an orphanage, or that English was not her native language. But Hope remembers that time in her life, and always will. At such a young age, she already knows the lessons that it took me a lifetime to learn. Her knowledge of compassion and love is unlike anything I have seen in a child before. When I was visiting recently, she took my hand and swiftly pulled me towards her room. She showed me the shelf where she had put Abby’s baby bear next to her own. Underneath it, she had hung Abby’s name-plate next to hers on the wall. “That’s my sister, Abby’s!” she proudly pointed out. When I saw this I realized how much she loves and understands the value of the “big sister” she never knew. My aunt later told me that Hope did that all on her own, without prompting. Such an authentic, genuine act of love brought tears to my eyes. It is so beautiful that she cares about Abby, and visually lets it show how much she appreciates what Abby means to her.
Because of Abby’s death, I believe that unborn children have value. Even though Abby never opened her eyes or felt the touch of another human, her existence had meaning. No one ever heard the sound of her voice, but her story has been heard by many. Grieving parents have been helped, nurses better understand stillbirth situations, adoption awareness was raised, and a little girl received her “forever” home, all because of Abby. A blood clot in her umbilical cord may have stopped her life, but it did not stop us from loving her. She continues to touch lives as her story is told, in the same way she does as I write this. Her life shows that worth does not have to come from anything we do, but simply from just existing. Finally, Abby fundamentally changed the lives of her whole family. If that does not have value, I do not know what does.
