“I’m pregnant,” my daughter whispered.
“That’s wonderful news,” I congratulated.
It was the best news we as grandparents could have received. Our first grandchild, we were elated. Months past with increasing excitement, then came the news she was in labor. Rushing to the hospital seemed to take an eternity, but soon we were pacing the floor of the waiting room. My daughter’s young husband slipped out to tell us she was nearly there, and suddenly we saw the nurses franticly escorting a small bundle on a gurney down the hallway of the hospital.
Sobbing and gut wrenching screams echoed from the delivery room. Entering, we saw my son in law kneeling beside the bed holding my daughter’s hand and praying. Shivers ran down my spine as my daughter lay wailing and muttering unrecognizable words. A nurse came to us and motioned for us to step outside where she explained my new granddaughter was in critical shape.
Her new life ended a few hours later because of a chromosome defect. Sixteen months later she became pregnant once again and all through her pregnancy everything looked normal. Everyone was elated when the news came she was pregnant with twins. Not one of us said anything, but everyone’s nerves were on edge for the nine months. Twin boys, delivered to their mother’s bosom that day as we all gathered near.
Without any warning signs one died of unknown causes that evening and the other lived on to hold the family together. Nine years later the pain of losing two grandchildren still lingers, but the one who lived will know no greater love than we all have for him.