When our daughter, Katherine, was born, she had a heart murmur. The pediatric cardiologist at the hospital in Chapel Hill alerted us to this at the time of Katherine’s first checkup, comforting us that this was not all that uncommon and likely to clear up on its own. As Katherine’s first year progressed, the murmur persisted. Even more unsettling was that at times Katherine would have a bluish complexion and seem to lose her breath. This would last only a minute or two but still was unsettling. The cardiologist admitted that this was a concern and needed to be monitored closely.
While troubling, this did not keep us from enjoying our daughter. Embry bonded with the child, and I had never seen Embry so happy. As time progressed, however, the blue spells got worse, and after several visits to the cardiologist the decision was made to have a “Blaylock Shunt” operation, which would allow the vessels to bypass the dysfunctional part of the heart. The cardiologist assured us that this was a relatively routine operation and would get Katherine through the next several years when a more complex procedure would be performed to “cure” the situation when she got into her teenage years. The success rate of the Blaylock Shunt was above 90% overall and the surgeon at the hospital was considered the best in the business. Not to worry.
Well, of course, we did worry but had confidence in the kind, gentle, and highly respected cardiologist, who advised us. Besides, we really did not have a choice.
The operation was performed in late October. We briefly met the surgeon just after the surgery and he assured us that all had gone according to plan. Katherine would be fine. We breathed easily for the first time in months. Good friends from planning school had invited us over for dinner that evening and we had accepted. It was a relaxed evening of storytelling and good vibes. All would be well.
Just before we were to have dessert, the phone rang. The call was from the hospital, and it was for us. We were not expecting a phone call from the hospital. Besides all had gone well. I took the phone.
It was the cardiologist. His tone was very different from when we had talked to him following the surgery. He did not go into detail but said we should come to the hospital immediately. There had been some complications. Embry saw the expression on my face and immediately jumped up from the dining table. We apologized, thanked our hosts, and drove frantically to the hospital. I could see from their worried looks that our friends sensed the gravity of our situation.
I have erased from memory most of what happened that evening, but as we were waiting for the cardiologist to meet us, etched in my mind forever is the image of the cocky surgeon breezing past us in a hurry, not making eye contact. He knew damn well who we were and why we were there.
Embry and I looked at each other in fear.
I could not fathom how much of a tragedy this would be if we lost Katherine, especially for Embry. There is something about the bond between a mother and a newborn that we men can’t fathom. And even with Embry’s stoic Presbyterian upbringing, I knew this would be devastating for her. I had never seen her so happy and so content as she had been over the past year.
When the cardiologist arrived a few minutes later and took us into his office, he did not have to say anything. The expression on his face said it all. She had not made it. She died just a few weeks short of what would have been her first birthday. It was never clear exactly what happened or if the surgeon had screwed up. Essentiality all that was said was that Katherine’s heart condition turned out to be much worse and more complicated than anyone had expected. His advice was not to let this tragedy destroy us or our marriage and to have another child as soon as possible. Nine months later our son, Andrew, was born in the same hospital on June 6, 1969, and delivered by natural childbirth.
Five alarm fire for family and close friends! My parents immediately flew over from Nashville to be with us. Embry’s parents were on a cruise in the Mediterranean, which they left early, and arrived a couple of days after my parents. The day after Katherine’s death food started appearing on our doorstep, tons of it. Fried chicken, potato salad, casseroles of every variety, and jugs of iced tea. And people started dropping by. Almost every classmate in the planning school came by our house as did a couple of my favorite professors and the head of the city planning department and his wife, who headed up the school’s social work department, and I think was largely responsible for mobilizing the support effort. Several of our neighbors, all African Americans, also stopped by though we did not know any of them well. This went on for several days and made a huge difference. People did not have to say anything. Their presence was enough.
Katherine’s funeral was held the following week in Davidson, NC, where Embry grew up and where her parents still lived, over a two-hour drive from Chapel Hill. When Embry and I arrived at her mother’s house, I was astonished to open the front door to find the living room packed with my classmates, most of them sitting on the floor. I had no idea that anyone was coming, but almost everyone? My goodness! I was overcome with appreciation and gratitude.
So, we got through the service and the burial, which was in the “Martin plot” in the Davidson Cemetery. But a full semester remained before the next chapter in our lives could begin. We still had to get through the mourning period after family and friends had departed. The period of grief gradually diminished though for many months following Katherine’s death it still lurked in the shadows of our home. Losing an infant child is more difficult, I think, for the mother than for the father—especially, for mothers like Embry, who had natural childbirth and nursed their babies. But life must go on and we managed to stagger through the next few months as best as we could. When Embry found out that she was pregnant again, it was like a huge dark cloud had been lifted, at least partway.
Another silver lining in this dark cloud is that someone in the planning school announced to us that the medical bill which was associated with the ordeal had been completely covered by state insurance program, a pre Medicaid program called “The North Carolina Crippled Children’s Fund,” designed for people like us— low income and no health insurance. I did not remember filling out any forms or even thinking about the financial implications, which could have forced us into bankruptcy. The guardian angels who made this happen remains a mystery.
But life must go on. I was to graduate in only a few months. What kind of job might I be able to get? Would both of us be able to get good jobs? Where would we live? And what would our second child be like?
These were all the questions floating around in my brain when in late March a professor from the city planning school called me into his office and made me an offer I could not refuse and which turned out to be life transforming.
Stay tuned for the next post.