Sweet baby Aubany Grace . . . until we meet again.
On Wednesday of this week, Sarah and I traveled to the Valley to attend funeral services for little Aubany Grace, the stillborn daughter of my nephew Justin and his sweet wife Jessica. The loss of any child is one of the greatest tragedies of this life, and Aubany's loss was doubly difficult under the circumstances. Justin and Jessica each brought a child to their marriage, Jessica's daughter Austyn and Justin's son Aiden, and they were ready as a family to welcome a new baby together. After several miscarriages, Aubany was conceived and all seemed to progress well. She was scheduled to be delivered on July 17th.
On July 7, just ten days before the planned due date, Justin was on his way home from a job in Texas and Jessica was at a family birthday party in Arizona when she realized she hadn't felt the baby move for an unusually long time. She went directly to the hospital, where the nurses were unable to find a heartbeat. It was later determined that the umbilical cord had become wrapped around the baby's neck. Justin was still five hours away when he received the news, pushing on through the night to be with his wife. Labor was induced and Aubany was delivered at 10:58 on the morning of July 9th, 6 lbs 5 oz and 19.5 inches long.
I'm so grateful that medical professionals now understand the importance of closure for parents of stillborn children. After Aubany's delivery, the hospital provided a little pink dress and allowed the family time to hold and snuggle her. They took many photographs to capture the short time they had with her as a family.
It wasn't always that way. After I was born, my mom suffered three miscarriages before she finally had a full-term pregnancy four years later. On the morning when she started labor, March 13, 1958, she felt the baby suddenly stop moving as she sat in her doctor's waiting room. Immediately after my brother Gerald was delivered, the nurses whisked him away. My mother never got to see him or hold him. I suppose they thought it was kinder that way. My dad saw him briefly and described him as perfectly formed, with golden hair. They never discovered why he passed away just hours before his birth. I always felt it was a tragedy that my mom never got to cuddle the little son she'd felt moving inside her for all those months.
For my four younger siblings and me growing up, Gerald was a very real presence in our home. He was as much our brother as each of us were siblings to each other. As a family, we spoke of him often. When Mom passed away, we knew she was rejoicing in her reunion with him. We know that when we're all united beyond the veil one day, Gerald will be there to take his place among us. And I know that Aubany will continue to be a part of Justin and Jessica's family in the same way.
Justin wrote this of the time they spent with Aubany: "We love her so much even though we have to say goodbye to her so quickly. She is beautiful and precious. Despite the loss, we have felt peace and happiness to have been blessed to have her in our lives, no matter how short it may have been. The spirit has been in the room with us constantly since her delivery."
Justin and Jessica with tiny Aubany at the viewing.
When we arrived at the memorial park, we were ushered into a small room that was already filled with family, although the facility limited gatherings to fifty people, due to covid-19 mandates. It was a bit surreal, with everyone wearing masks. It wasn't always easy to recognize even nieces and nephews I've known their whole lives.
Little Aubany was cradled in a small bassinet, looking tiny and perfect amidst the lacy frills and pink blankets. Too soon, it was time to place her fragile little body in the small casket in preparation for the graveside service. It was a heartbreaking moment, watching her parents tenderly carry her to her resting place and arrange her carefully inside. Tears rolled down their faces as they steeled themselves for the final goodbye.
The comfort of family in a time of sadness.
Family members comforted each other and said their farewells, some touching Aubany's tiny little fists and cheeks for the last time on this side of the veil. The grief and tears of Aubany's sister, Austyn, were heart wrenching. Her deep love for this little sister she'd waited so long to hold was beautiful to see.
The graveside service for Aubany. The grounds of Gilbert Memorial Park
were wide and beautifully kept. It's a fairly new cemetery.
A friend and family member, Matt Beeler, gave a short, uplifting talk, reminding us of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation that allows us to be reunited as families when we depart this life. My brother Jeff, Justin's father and Aubany's grandfather, dedicated the grave in beautifully touching words.
A tiny casket made with love by family members working together.
After the service, I was amazed to learn from my sister-in-law Dana that the sweet little casket was handmade as a labor of love by several family members. I don't recall all the details, but they purchased the hardwood and hardware, designed and constructed the box and lid, and added small, fine details. Jessica herself applied the gold leafing. Then the entire family wrote little love notes on the wood in the bottom and inside the lid before the padding was added.
Writing messages of love to Aubany.
Even after the service, many of us lingered for about 45 minutes, enjoying the comfort of family and the sharing of feelings to ease our grief. The memorial garden invited everyone to write messages on both sides of a large black stone near the building, which many people did. Such an outpouring of love and emotion!
Justin shields Jessica from the sun while she writes a love note to her baby girl.
Eventually we were driven indoors, though, by the extreme heat. When we went back out to my car, it was registering 114 degrees. (A few hours later it hit 118 before it began to drop again.) From the cemetery, we headed over to Jeff and Dana's church building for a luncheon. We spent more than an hour there, appreciating the air conditioning, good long visits with family, and a lovely lunch of pulled-meat sandwiches, salads, and cookies.
Three of five Butler siblings: Karla, Jeff, and Mary at luncheon after the services.
It's hard to fathom the pain of losing a child. My own experience in loss can't compare to what my nephew and his wife have just suffered through, but it does help me to empathize with the heartrending, bittersweet mixture of grief and joy. My first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage at twelve weeks, after about a week of unexplained bleeding. I remember my overwhelmed emotions when contractions finally pushed the tiny little figure out, and the feeling that I might just die of grief as I held my child in the palm of my hand.
For three months, I felt that the grief would tear me apart. It reached a point where I started to think about going to sleep and never waking up. When I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed with a bottle of pills in my hand one day, wondering if that would stop the pain, I woke up to what was happening and cried out for help. The answer to that prayer was immediate and dramatic, and I know it saved my life.
A 10-week fetus, still in the amniotic sac. This is what my baby looked like.
The pain remained, but it began to soften and allowed a spark of hope to seep back in. I still cried myself to sleep at night, yet I was able to start working through the grief. I finally realized that the depth of our grief in loss is a tribute to the depth of our love for the one who was lost, even if that loss is only temporary during this time of mortal probation.
During those long, sleepless nights, I began composing a poem in my head about the evolution and purpose of my grief. Eventually, I knew I had to write it down. Many years later, in 2004, it became the only work I've ever had published (so far), in a book of poetry that I'm sure very few people have bought or read. But I was honored that they chose my poem to be on the first page of the collection.
Loss
The wrenching torment has gone.
No more am I swallowed up
In sorrow beyond voice.
The anguish raging past release
Has inscribed a memorial on my soul
And moved on.
It leaves behind an open wound,
A circle of emptiness.
There is no numbness to give comfort.
The edges of the void
Have become tender with sadness,
Soothed only by slow, haunted tears.
A gentle pain,
This soft touch of grief.
Enough to remember loss.
A quiet reminder
Of the child I barely knew.
I'll end with another poem, this one written nearly fifty years before my loss. I came across it by accident one day, about two months after my miscarriage, printed on the back side of a recipe I'd torn out of a magazine long before. I don't even recall if the title is actually "Tribute" or if that's just the name I gave it because the title was missing.
I remember sobbing for a very long time after I read the poem. It evoked the full depth of grief I'd been suffering, but it also brought home to me how grateful I was to have had that tiny creature, son or daughter, in my life for even the short time I held him in my hand. It's a long poem, but I'll include only the portion that impacted me so strongly.
Tribute
…And we who love
must also dare to keep the faith
When those we love
are lost,
Lest weaker
spirits, watching, should cry out that
Love’s not worth
the cost.
And so, my Father,
take my grief today as tribute to
The glory you sent
away.
I lay my little son
within your arms, safe now,
Forever, from the
hurt and harm
He would have
known, had he lived.
I give him up. I drink the bitter cup reserved for
Those who dare to
love and lose.
Forgive our fears!
There is a nobler
duty facing us than tears.
It is our proud and
shining mission to express
Love’s rare,
abiding pride and loveliness.
We, only, who have
lost, can know that love is worth
Whatever it may
cost.
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