Siobhan Limerick: It never ends

When I buried my first baby, I didn't complain to anyone because that's what a mother does. It's what my mother did with two of hers and it's what my grandmother did with one of hers. It's what a mother does. But my tears come for that little baby -- my first, a boy with pretty blue eyes just like his father, a boy who lived only one hour before God took him from me. I wonder what his life might've been. What would his voice have sounded like? What would he have liked? Would he have been thin or fat? Would he have grown up, interested in music like my Agnes has been, or would he have been interested in cars like my Patrick? I wonder.

When I buried my second baby, I told myself that God tests us but that in his wisdom he calls the little children unto him. I told myself that I must have faith in his greater plan, that I needed to understand the miracle of birth didn't necessarily promise the miracle of life. My second baby, a little girl who made it just six hours before being released to the next world, she had brown eyes and dark features, just like my brother Collin. He came to the house after she was born and stayed until she died -- and read the last rites to her, my second baby. I wonder what her life might've been.

When I buried my third baby, I began to doubt God's wisdom for us and his plan. My third baby made it even longer -- almost to the second day of life, but alas, this little boy died, too, and we buried him in the family plot out in Gladwyn. By now I'd learned to stop wondering what the baby's life might've been. I told myself it made no difference, life would've been just as unhappy for these babies as it's been for me.

When I buried my fourth baby, I cried bitter tears of retribution for God's malice toward me. I knew I'd done something wrong, something very wrong to deserve this kind of punishment. My brother with his rock solid forearms supporting me on my way to the cemetery told me that I could not give up. My husband, the good doctor with the wisdom to say, "Keep trying, Siobhan, we must keep trying," also told me never to give up.

I'm glad I didn't give up. If I had, my Patrick and Agnes would never have been born. And even if my son never married, even if my daughter left the Church to marry a Protestant, they're alive and well. And that's the only thing a mother can hope for.