Dec. 31, 2023
The journey with my partner, Mark, began in college. Our roommates were romantically involved, which led to our initial acquaintance. Love didn’t blossom right away; instead, we developed a casual friendship, sharing occasional conversations while growing independently. Years later, we reunited at the wedding of our roommates, and that’s when love struck—swiftly and effortlessly, despite the physical distance between us.
Our love story is delightful: filled with adventures, heartfelt letters, and endless conversations. Mark whisked me away to Paris for our second date, professing his love in the kitchen of his apartment beside the trash can, unable to hold back any longer. He meticulously planned outings to theaters and restaurants, always considering my tastes. He loved me deeply. Yet, I was not his most profound love.
That distinction belonged to our daughter.
At 20 weeks into my pregnancy with our second child, Mark and I found ourselves in the ultrasound room, eager to witness the little one inside me without learning the gender. Afterward, I planned to pick up our son from my parents’ home while Mark intended to return to work nearby. However, that day took an unexpected turn.
We received devastating news. The doctor informed us that our daughter’s heart was irreparably damaged, and we faced difficult decisions ahead.
“Whatever happens, we must communicate openly—every thought, every feeling,” Mark declared as we sat stunned on the couch that evening. His intuition about what we needed in that moment was remarkable. How did he already know how to love our daughter so profoundly?
After making our choices, we welcomed Bethany into the world. We were aware of her fragile condition, yet when she was born, she cried and appeared surprisingly healthy. Mark held her first, and in that moment, I saw an unmistakable love in his eyes—a love that surpassed anything he felt for me. He was ready to let her go, even as I struggled to do so.
Bethany defied all expectations. She grew, nursed, laughed, and lived, even while facing daily battles against her condition. Mark was often there for her, holding her when he could, but he never took her away from me. He loved her with empty arms during the moments I held her tightly. Their bond flourished in small stolen moments—stroller walks, drives through the neighborhood, and early morning journeys to the mountains. Every weekend, he took her on these excursions, cherishing their time together while I struggled to soothe her to sleep.
Eventually, Mark had to return to work, loving her from a distance, fully aware that each moment could be her last. He never complained.
When we lost her, I was the last to hold Bethany. Mark rushed from work to find her lifeless on an emergency room bed. He didn’t voice any grievances. Instead, he celebrated her existence, urging me to grieve however I needed. Each morning, he would shut himself in his office, reading our eulogy for her, never uttering a word of complaint.
I know Mark longed to hold Bethany more. His arms still ache for her, and for a while, I believed those aches stemmed from her limited time in them. Months after her passing, I expressed my regret that she hadn’t allowed him to hold her more often. He simply replied, “She was where she needed to be.”
Bethany will always hold the title of his greatest love.
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In summary, love can manifest in various forms, and the experience of loss can illuminate the depth of that affection. Despite the heartache, the bond between a parent and child remains profound, echoing through the memories shared, and the love given.