The Day We Found Out
Dust
Written by Ty
On Ash Wednesday Caroline was just 13 days old. I was in the middle of paternity leave (I work at a church), but I decided to attend our church’s Ash Wednesday service.
I participated in this service seeking to fully embrace my mortality, that one day I will return to dust, that one day Holly will return to dust, that one day we all will return to dust. And that meant, yes, my 13-day old daughter, one day – hopefully far, far into the future and longer after me – will return to the dust. It was not so much a terrifying or saddening thought as much as a sobering acknowledgment of life’s limitations, of humanity’s limitations, of our utter dependence on God and the need to truly enjoy the gift of life God gives us while we still have it.
It was the next morning that I received a phone call from our pediatrician’s office. I was holding Caroline and Holly was catching up on some much needed sleep. The person calling told me that they had the results back from her newborn screening and wanted us to come in today to discuss them. I suddenly felt like I had a rock in my stomach. We had an appointment scheduled for the very next day, but since they called and wanted us to come this day, I had a feeling I knew what the results would be. With Holly and I knowing Caroline had a 25-percent chance of having C.F., we had been waiting on these results since she was a day old. I went into the bedroom to tell Holly that we had our appointment moved, but did not tell her why so she could keep sleeping a little bit longer.
On the drive to the pediatrician’s office I told Holly why I thought we were coming in a day earlier than we were supposed to. She called her mom and asked her to meet us there. As we got into the exam room we tried our best to prepare ourselves before we even saw the doctor. When the doctor told us Caroline had two copies of the gene for cystic fibrosis we were devastated. Though I had tried to be prepared, part of me still held onto hope that she would be okay, that the tests would all be negative and we could put this worry out of our minds. But my hope was quickly crushed. Just last night I had sought to embrace the mortality of my baby girl (and even convinced myself I was strong for doing so), but now I was acknowledging the extremely likely possibility that her funeral would be before mine – that she would return to the dust before I do.
One of the most helpful things, however, was to look at this beautiful baby girl right in front of us. Right here, right now was a two-week-old baby would had already brought us so much joy and would continue to do so. As I continued to ruminate over her diagnosis and what that meant for us as a family and for her future (and ours), I recognized that all parents face the possibility that their children could die before they do. In other words, there are no guarantees and one of the early gifts of this disease was the shattering of that illusion. It was a summons to truly embrace the precious sacredness of life and not take anything for granted. Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Written by Ty
On Ash Wednesday Caroline was just 13 days old. I was in the middle of paternity leave (I work at a church), but I decided to attend our church’s Ash Wednesday service.
To summarize what that day, the first day of Lent, is all about, is essentially to say: Remember, one day you’re going to die. It is a humbling, yet also freeing experience to be told: Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
I participated in this service seeking to fully embrace my mortality, that one day I will return to dust, that one day Holly will return to dust, that one day we all will return to dust. And that meant, yes, my 13-day old daughter, one day – hopefully far, far into the future and longer after me – will return to the dust. It was not so much a terrifying or saddening thought as much as a sobering acknowledgment of life’s limitations, of humanity’s limitations, of our utter dependence on God and the need to truly enjoy the gift of life God gives us while we still have it.
It was the next morning that I received a phone call from our pediatrician’s office. I was holding Caroline and Holly was catching up on some much needed sleep. The person calling told me that they had the results back from her newborn screening and wanted us to come in today to discuss them. I suddenly felt like I had a rock in my stomach. We had an appointment scheduled for the very next day, but since they called and wanted us to come this day, I had a feeling I knew what the results would be. With Holly and I knowing Caroline had a 25-percent chance of having C.F., we had been waiting on these results since she was a day old. I went into the bedroom to tell Holly that we had our appointment moved, but did not tell her why so she could keep sleeping a little bit longer.
On the drive to the pediatrician’s office I told Holly why I thought we were coming in a day earlier than we were supposed to. She called her mom and asked her to meet us there. As we got into the exam room we tried our best to prepare ourselves before we even saw the doctor. When the doctor told us Caroline had two copies of the gene for cystic fibrosis we were devastated. Though I had tried to be prepared, part of me still held onto hope that she would be okay, that the tests would all be negative and we could put this worry out of our minds. But my hope was quickly crushed. Just last night I had sought to embrace the mortality of my baby girl (and even convinced myself I was strong for doing so), but now I was acknowledging the extremely likely possibility that her funeral would be before mine – that she would return to the dust before I do.
One of the most helpful things, however, was to look at this beautiful baby girl right in front of us. Right here, right now was a two-week-old baby would had already brought us so much joy and would continue to do so. As I continued to ruminate over her diagnosis and what that meant for us as a family and for her future (and ours), I recognized that all parents face the possibility that their children could die before they do. In other words, there are no guarantees and one of the early gifts of this disease was the shattering of that illusion. It was a summons to truly embrace the precious sacredness of life and not take anything for granted. Remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.
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