The cardboard box sat on the bed. Taped closed with a name on top I faintly recognized. But I knew what was inside. A little baby girl, about 32 weeks old in gestation, who had breathed her last.
As I cut away the tape with the scissors I wonder if the baby was whole yet little, and what she will look like. I wonder if the body will smell after 24 hours of death. And how stiff it will be to pose for the precious photos I’ve been asked to collect. This is only my second time with a baby who isn’t breathing, and the first time to be handling a body that has been deceased for so long.
I finally open the box and she’s beautiful.
Wrapped carefully in a receiving blanket, a small amount of fluid stained it near her mouth. I take the first picture there, and then lift her 1.5kg body out carefully, with great gentleness. Her body is mostly rigid with a small amount of flex at each joint. I start the process of unwrapping her to see if I can get any good angles of little feet. Little feet that will never run, let alone crawl. Little hands that will never reach for their mama.
I move through the process, feet, hands, no naked shots as the body is too stiff to undress. Re-wrap in a clean blanket. Find the good lighting. Removing her hat I find a beautiful head full of soft downy hair. A head of hair that will never be brushed, never be kissed gently or patted with love.
Later the 15-year-old mother will arrive. Right now she’s at the hospital still. She hasn’t been discharged yet, and won’t be until she pays the bill. She wasn’t allowed to hold her baby there. This little precious girl was whisked away to the ICU before Mama had a chance to touch her precious gift. And Mama had to stay in the ward. She wasn’t even permitted to express breastmilk for her tiny little one. When she arrives we will take more photos, precious memories as she finally gets to hold her baby in her arms. We will take baby girl’s footprints, give her copies, and add baby to our wall of footprints of those we care for at Clinic, a small memorial. We will also pray over her and her family, trying to share a little more hope and peace into their current darkness.
Why do pre-term births happen so often here? Why do the stories always seem to end in tears? Why isn’t this little one allowed a chance at life? Where is God in pain and suffering?
I don’t have great answers to those questions. But I do know this, my God is a Good God. Our sin has messed up this world. And we live in those consequences of a broken world. A world of pregnancies too young, where premature birth is more common. A world with a broken health system where there are not enough resources or expertise, and the survival rate for a 32-weeker is very low*. I know my God weeps with those who weep. I know He will wipe away every tear from every eye one day – every single one of those tears is precious to Him. I believe that this little one, born to a believer, has left behind a world full of hurt for a home full of glory. I know that He promises to be near to the brokenhearted and those who are crushed in spirit, if they will only call on Him.
Little Amethyst Baire, you are cherished and loved and entrusted to the One who created you and loves you infinitely more than any human ever could.
*Only one in 10 extremely preterm babies – under 28 weeks of pregnancy – survive in low-income countries, compared to more than nine in 10 in high-income countries. The Philippines has 350,000 pre term births a year (ranked in the top 10 countries for most preterm births per population), and a high rate of teen pregnancies, which is a risk factor for preterm births. 42% of neonatal deaths in the Philippines were due to preterm complications in 2020, making it the leading cause of neonatal death. Comparatively, according to WHO statistics, only 7.5% of premature babies die worldwide.
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