Jeffrey's Story

Jeffrey's Story was written by Karen Zerr on her journey of grieving and healing.

My husband was in the Navy going through the Aviation Training Command to be a jet pilot, and we had moved to Kingsville, Texas in October 1968. We moved about every 6 months in those days. I was about 6 weeks pregnant with our third child; our other two children were 3 and 1. We settled into our rental home, and Jack continued with flight training. My pregnancy proceeded in a normal fashion until I went into premature labor on March 16, 1969. I couldn’t believe it! This wasn’t supposed to be happening. With my nursing background, I knew if the baby was born at 28 weeks he/she would not survive. It was a Sunday morning so I couldn’t just go see my doctor, and in my mind I decided labor was not happening. However, by that evening, even my mind was convinced I was in labor and I needed to go to the hospital. I worried about what to do with our two young children as we had no family living in the vicinity to help out. I did know the neighbors very casually, but would they be willing to take the children at 9:00 at night for who knows how long? They weren’t even Navy and had no children of their own, so would they understand?  Fortunately, they were very willing to help for as long as necessary and we met our doctor at the ER. He examined me and determined that I was in active labor and there was no way to stop it. I was devastated!!!  No, no, this couldn’t be happening – but it was. I was sobbing as they put me on the elevator to take me to surgery, and the next thing I knew I was being given a spinal anesthetic to prepare me for a C-section. I was awake when Jeffrey was born, and I heard him cry. It wasn’t a lusty cry, but he was alive and crying, which gave me a glimmer of hope. I never saw him because they rushed him off to the nursery. There was no NICU back then, but a pediatrician was there waiting. They put me to sleep to close me up.

I woke up in the recovery room and then was taken to a private room on the OB floor. I wanted to know about our baby, and I wanted to see him. Unfortunately, this was not possible. He couldn’t come to me because he was fighting for his life. I couldn’t go to him because in that hospital at that time, you had to lie flat for 24 hours after having a spinal anesthetic – no exceptions.  Jeffrey only lived for 12 hours, and in that time frame, we were powerless to do anything but pray. The Catholic Navy Chaplain came to see us to get information for Jeffrey’s baptism, and he was very uncomfortable. He did not make me feel one bit better, and he never came back to see me. In his defense, he didn’t have a clue how to handle the situation.

So, there we were. We were left wondering, "How do we bury our precious baby boy?" We certainly didn’t want him buried in Kingsville. I fervently hoped that once Jack finished with flight training, I would never see Kingsville again.  What was a young Navy family to do? By then, my parents were on their way driving from St. Charles, MO to help us out, so they couldn’t make funeral arrangements. Jack called his parents and they were more than willing to help us. Jeffrey’s tiny little body was put on a train all by himself and shipped back home to his waiting grandparents for burial. 

I never saw Jeffrey. I never held him in my arms. We didn’t even think of taking pictures because that was considered bizarre back then. There was nothing in place to help us grieve and no one to guide us through this horrible, life-altering event. Basically, we were told to just get over it and move on. Well, that doesn’t happen. I still have a hole in my heart and I always will. Yes, I finally got to where I accepted our loss but I will never “get over it."

We, literally, did move on. By April 1969 we were on our way driving to Jack’s new duty station in Jacksonville, Florida, less than 4 weeks after major surgery and losing our baby boy. I had my 6 week check-up with a totally new doctor who had nothing more to offer in the way of resolving grief than anyone else had.

Fast forward to 1998. My husband had retired from the Navy after 36 years, and we moved back to St. Charles, MO where he worked for Boeing. One day, out of the clear blue, I thought about Jeffrey and wondered what he was wearing when he was buried. That thought quickly progressed to wondering, "Was he wearing anything?" Unfortunately, that question won’t be answered in this lifetime because both of my in-laws are dead. So, I decided to find out what premature babies are buried in. I called the local funeral home and was told that he was at least wrapped in a blanket.  My heart lurched! He probably didn’t have any clothes on, only a blanket. Fortunately, I was also referred to Share.  I had never heard of it, but I called, talked with Cathi Lammert and told her my story. I felt really silly after all these years, but my grief had never been resolved. I told her I might be interested in doing some sewing for Share. She told me there was definitely a need for burial clothing as you can’t go to the mall and buy teeny tiny baby clothing. So, long story short, I have found healing in sewing burial clothing and crocheting blankets for babies from teeny tiny miscarried babies up to babies of full term birth weight. I do it to honor and remember our Jeffrey, and it is a joyful thing for me to do. And I do it so no other mother has to worry if there is clothing for her precious baby to wear. Dressing a baby makes that baby so real. He/she is something to celebrate, not forget about and move on. Share has helped me all these years later as we mothers never forget our babies. Share's mission spans the years.

Stitch by Stitch, Little By Little, Heart and Soul Begin to Heal

This article was written by Heather Lammert-Sparks. For more articles on healing, click here to download our latest newsletter, Creative Ways of Healing.

After 3 years of trying to conceive, our dreams had come true.  This past February we found out I was expecting our first child.  As an artist and art teacher I began to dream of making and creating many handmade treasures for our baby.  One of the first things I began was a crocheted blanket of a soft, variegated yarn of snow white, lemon yellow and a sunny yellow-orange.  My husband, Kevin said it looked like “scrambled eggs”.  Every morning and evening, when I was not nauseous or exhausted I crocheted…single, double, double…over and over and over. 

On Tuesday, April 24th I was 8 weeks along and began bleeding.  I immediately knew something was wrong.  I knew too much about what could go wrong.  I continued to work on the blanket and hope our child would hold on.   On April 29 my body let our baby go, I miscarried our first child, Charlie.  The bleeding was so bad that I had to be taken to the ER.  I took the “scrambled eggs” blanket with me, hoping this was all a bad dream and I would wake up.  The next day I put my work in progress into the antique dresser I had purchased for our baby along with the ducky gown from Nana and Papa, handmade ducky bib made by Grandma Joy and many presents from friends and family. 

A few days later I saw Charlie for the first time, with his tiny curved red body and the hint of an arm developing.  I could not bear to flush my baby down the toilet.  I knew I had to do something special.  I saved him in a glass jar and slept with him that night wrapped in his blanket.  The next morning I sat with him and read him my favorite childhood book, The Velveteen Rabbit like my mother would do when I was sick as a child.  I sang him Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.  Then I started to crochet a small basket made of a soft green, cuddly yarn to bury my baby in.  When I finished I went outside to my backyard, dug a small hole being sure to remove all of rocks to create a soft bed.  I gently placed Charlie inside the cuddly yarn and laid him in the soft dirt.  I asked Mother Earth to watch over him and take care of him for me and I slowly covered him with the earth saying goodbye. 

Over the next several months I found myself opening that drawer to run my hand over Charlie's blanket dreaming of my child and the mother I should have been.  It continued to sit unfinished while I thought of someday finishing it, for our future children, so they would know and never forget the sibling they should have and would have had. 

Saturday, November 26 should have been Charlie's due date.  I had been dreading the day, the day that should have been the happiest of our lives.  The day our first child

should have entered this world.  The day we would become parents.  The day we would have begun our family. 

Late that afternoon and I was alone and not sure what to do with myself.  All I could do was cry and cry and cry……….a river of tears.  I opened the dresser drawer; read through all of the sympathy cards, looked at all of the handmade gifts and soft baby clothes and then I came to Charlie's unfinished blanket.  

I pulled it out of the drawer and ran my hand over the stitches and decided at that moment I would begin crocheting again.  I marked my last stitch, the end of a dream, with a small piece of gray yarn tied in a bow. 

While I continued to crochet I talked to Charlie.  I told him how much we loved him, how much he was wanted and how I needed him.  I asked him to help my heart and soul begin to heal. 

As an art teacher I continually tell my students how art heals, art saves lives and when we don't know how to deal with life, when we have no one to talk to and when we are lost making things with our hands helps us find our way.  Since then I have decided I want to make Charlie's blanket for mothers who have also lost their first child.  Crocheting has brought me a tiny bit of peace and a healing I have been so desperately seeking.  It has become my morning ritual.  I make my coffee, sit in my rocking chair and continue to work on Charlie's blanket.  Tears flow; I dream of Charlie and imagine rocking my baby wrapped in the scrambled eggs blanket……single, double, double….stitching together piece-by-piece, little by little, my broken heart and soul.