Honoring Baby David
Donation protected
This week, a friend introduced me to Brandy and Ben, a couple who are drowning in sorrow while trying not to drown in debt after the tragic loss of their son.
Brandy and Ben hoped to have a large family. After trying for seven years, they conceived a child, and were overwhelmed by joy. Everything looked good until, at 17 weeks, Brandy’s water broke suddenly. Doctors told her there was no hope, and that she could terminate the pregnancy or let nature take its course and miscarry, which they said would happen in about a week. Her baby still had a heartbeat, and they vowed that they would do everything they could to protect him; whatever life he was granted would not be theirs to take on their own timeline.
A week passed. Then another. And another. And against all odds, his heartbeat held steady at 144 beats per minute. Though not optimistic, doctors told her that if she could get to 23 weeks, they could admit her and do what they could to get her and her son to 32 weeks, and then deliver him. They encouraged her to do extensive genetic testing, since the baby was behind in growth, telling her: “If it turns out he has a defect, maybe you won’t want to work so hard to keep him alive.” They declined the testing; whatever the outcome wouldn’t change their response. They had vowed to love and protect and sustain this child so long as it was in their power to do so. And they couldn’t help but worry: if testing confirmed defects, would it mean the doctors wouldn’t work so hard to keep him alive?
At 23 weeks and one day—a day after being admitted to the hospital to start steroid injections—his heartbeat plummeted. During the ultrasound, a doctor unknown to Brandy told her that this was due to cord compression and that if she really wanted to do everything possible, she needed an emergency C-section right then, otherwise her baby could die in the womb. Overwhelmed, terrified, but doing the best they could with the information they had, they agreed. As she was being prepped for surgery, Brandy begged the NICU team to do their utmost to help the child she loved and had fought so hard to shelter.
Their son was born alive and his heart was beating strongly. They named him David—hoping that this little fighter would triumph against all odds.
Twelve hours later, everything changed. The NICU team did all they could, but David was dying. Ben and Brandy, only a few hours removed from traumatic surgery, held him as his heart slowed. He died in their arms, hearing these familiar voices weeping over him and telling him how proud they were of him, how much they loved him.
Sixth months later, they are shattered and struggling on all fronts. The medical bills have been unrelenting, and Brandy has experienced a number of postpartum health complications—both physical and mental. She has returned to work one day a week, and has some disability benefits; her therapist (who is working for a dramatically reduced rate) is helping them apply for an extension. When people come in to her workplace, where she is the receptionist, she has no idea how to answer well-meaning questions like, “Where have you been?” or “How are you doing?”
Ben has been working as many hours as humanly possible, but that takes him away from her, and doesn’t allow him room or time to process his own grief. They have been paying everything off as diligently as they can but have wiped out their savings. They have taken out loans to try to pay down the medical bills and to cover general life expenses. Last summer, a nonprofit helped pay some of the medical bill for her emergency surgery, but the hospital has sent the remainder of the bill to collections.
Now, not only are they mourning the death of their child and trying to heal physically and emotionally, they are also worried that their credit is ruined and reluctant to seek the help they need for fear of accruing more medical bills.
They have designed a gravestone for David, but have had to put it off, because the other bills are pressing in on every side. They showed me a picture of the memorial stone they have designed; it has little cubs carved on it, drawn by Ben, because they called him their little cub from the moment they found out he was arriving.
When they got to this part of the story, Brandy and Ben broke down and held one another, weeping. There was nothing more to say.
We live in a broken world, and people walk among us with wounds we may never see. This couple is doing everything they can to live their values, and their commitment to protecting their son’s life—no matter what joys, sorrows, or sacrifices it would bring—has overwhelmed them. Yet even in the midst of this trauma, at Christmas, they directed some of their money not to pay a little more of a bill but to purchase items and put together, by hand, little care packages for NICU families. They know what it is like to watch a child suffer, and to feel powerless and isolated, and they wanted to bring some measure of comfort to other families experiencing the stress and trauma of having a child in the NICU.
It will not take much for us to lift this burden from them, even for a little while. When I raised this idea, Brandy was deeply reluctant and told me “I was raised to never ask for handouts.” I explained that this is different: if any one of us could go back in time and change the outcome for them, we would. All we can do now is help make this day, and tomorrow, a little easier. I explained that this is “charity” in its truest sense: the virtue by which we love God above all things for His own sake, and love our neighbor as ourselves for the love of God. Together, we can provide the resources to get them back on their feet and give them breathing room so that they can heal: spiritually, emotionally, physically, and financially. We can console them as best we can.
If you can, please support Brandy and Ben, who in spite of it all give thanks for the gift of their son David. I would love to go back to them and say: “You are not alone. You are loved, and you have an army of strangers praying for you. And in addition to their prayers, they have offered a bit of help.” Together we can purchase a gravestone for David (pictured above), and pay for a year of therapy for Brandy and Ben and clear their medical bills so that their deductible kicks in and they can seek care without fear. We can cover a few months’ rent, buy some groceries, and give Ben a week off work.
Anything above and beyond to cover the expenses they’re currently facing will go to the NICU at the hospital where David was born, and lived, and died. Brandy and Ben don’t want anything for themselves. They can’t have their son in their arms this side of heaven, but they would like to pay forward to other NICU families the love I know we can show them.
Please join me in honoring David’s short, beautiful, powerful life by making the world his parents wanted to give him a little less harrowing, and a little more hopeful.
(Pictured above: David's temporary grave marker and a snowman Brandy and Ben made for the first snow here; David's handprints and footprints, and the care packages they made for families spending Christmas in the NICU.)
Brandy asked me to say this: "Please don't waste a moment of your life; David fought to live and only got 12 hours in the outside world. Sometimes we can all waste 12 hours doing nothing useful or important and it seems like such a small amount of time for us -- but it was all he was given. I want us all to be grateful for each day we have and to hold our loved ones close."
Brandy and Ben hoped to have a large family. After trying for seven years, they conceived a child, and were overwhelmed by joy. Everything looked good until, at 17 weeks, Brandy’s water broke suddenly. Doctors told her there was no hope, and that she could terminate the pregnancy or let nature take its course and miscarry, which they said would happen in about a week. Her baby still had a heartbeat, and they vowed that they would do everything they could to protect him; whatever life he was granted would not be theirs to take on their own timeline.
A week passed. Then another. And another. And against all odds, his heartbeat held steady at 144 beats per minute. Though not optimistic, doctors told her that if she could get to 23 weeks, they could admit her and do what they could to get her and her son to 32 weeks, and then deliver him. They encouraged her to do extensive genetic testing, since the baby was behind in growth, telling her: “If it turns out he has a defect, maybe you won’t want to work so hard to keep him alive.” They declined the testing; whatever the outcome wouldn’t change their response. They had vowed to love and protect and sustain this child so long as it was in their power to do so. And they couldn’t help but worry: if testing confirmed defects, would it mean the doctors wouldn’t work so hard to keep him alive?
At 23 weeks and one day—a day after being admitted to the hospital to start steroid injections—his heartbeat plummeted. During the ultrasound, a doctor unknown to Brandy told her that this was due to cord compression and that if she really wanted to do everything possible, she needed an emergency C-section right then, otherwise her baby could die in the womb. Overwhelmed, terrified, but doing the best they could with the information they had, they agreed. As she was being prepped for surgery, Brandy begged the NICU team to do their utmost to help the child she loved and had fought so hard to shelter.
Their son was born alive and his heart was beating strongly. They named him David—hoping that this little fighter would triumph against all odds.
Twelve hours later, everything changed. The NICU team did all they could, but David was dying. Ben and Brandy, only a few hours removed from traumatic surgery, held him as his heart slowed. He died in their arms, hearing these familiar voices weeping over him and telling him how proud they were of him, how much they loved him.
Sixth months later, they are shattered and struggling on all fronts. The medical bills have been unrelenting, and Brandy has experienced a number of postpartum health complications—both physical and mental. She has returned to work one day a week, and has some disability benefits; her therapist (who is working for a dramatically reduced rate) is helping them apply for an extension. When people come in to her workplace, where she is the receptionist, she has no idea how to answer well-meaning questions like, “Where have you been?” or “How are you doing?”
Ben has been working as many hours as humanly possible, but that takes him away from her, and doesn’t allow him room or time to process his own grief. They have been paying everything off as diligently as they can but have wiped out their savings. They have taken out loans to try to pay down the medical bills and to cover general life expenses. Last summer, a nonprofit helped pay some of the medical bill for her emergency surgery, but the hospital has sent the remainder of the bill to collections.
Now, not only are they mourning the death of their child and trying to heal physically and emotionally, they are also worried that their credit is ruined and reluctant to seek the help they need for fear of accruing more medical bills.
They have designed a gravestone for David, but have had to put it off, because the other bills are pressing in on every side. They showed me a picture of the memorial stone they have designed; it has little cubs carved on it, drawn by Ben, because they called him their little cub from the moment they found out he was arriving.
When they got to this part of the story, Brandy and Ben broke down and held one another, weeping. There was nothing more to say.
We live in a broken world, and people walk among us with wounds we may never see. This couple is doing everything they can to live their values, and their commitment to protecting their son’s life—no matter what joys, sorrows, or sacrifices it would bring—has overwhelmed them. Yet even in the midst of this trauma, at Christmas, they directed some of their money not to pay a little more of a bill but to purchase items and put together, by hand, little care packages for NICU families. They know what it is like to watch a child suffer, and to feel powerless and isolated, and they wanted to bring some measure of comfort to other families experiencing the stress and trauma of having a child in the NICU.
It will not take much for us to lift this burden from them, even for a little while. When I raised this idea, Brandy was deeply reluctant and told me “I was raised to never ask for handouts.” I explained that this is different: if any one of us could go back in time and change the outcome for them, we would. All we can do now is help make this day, and tomorrow, a little easier. I explained that this is “charity” in its truest sense: the virtue by which we love God above all things for His own sake, and love our neighbor as ourselves for the love of God. Together, we can provide the resources to get them back on their feet and give them breathing room so that they can heal: spiritually, emotionally, physically, and financially. We can console them as best we can.
If you can, please support Brandy and Ben, who in spite of it all give thanks for the gift of their son David. I would love to go back to them and say: “You are not alone. You are loved, and you have an army of strangers praying for you. And in addition to their prayers, they have offered a bit of help.” Together we can purchase a gravestone for David (pictured above), and pay for a year of therapy for Brandy and Ben and clear their medical bills so that their deductible kicks in and they can seek care without fear. We can cover a few months’ rent, buy some groceries, and give Ben a week off work.
Anything above and beyond to cover the expenses they’re currently facing will go to the NICU at the hospital where David was born, and lived, and died. Brandy and Ben don’t want anything for themselves. They can’t have their son in their arms this side of heaven, but they would like to pay forward to other NICU families the love I know we can show them.
Please join me in honoring David’s short, beautiful, powerful life by making the world his parents wanted to give him a little less harrowing, and a little more hopeful.
(Pictured above: David's temporary grave marker and a snowman Brandy and Ben made for the first snow here; David's handprints and footprints, and the care packages they made for families spending Christmas in the NICU.)
Brandy asked me to say this: "Please don't waste a moment of your life; David fought to live and only got 12 hours in the outside world. Sometimes we can all waste 12 hours doing nothing useful or important and it seems like such a small amount of time for us -- but it was all he was given. I want us all to be grateful for each day we have and to hold our loved ones close."
Organizer
Shannon Last
Organizer
Woodbridge, VA