Christmas I remember best: December baby followed own timetable

0 Comments | Deseret News (Salt Lake City), Dec 25, 2003 | by Earlene Blaser Special to the Deseret Morning News

The only sound to be heard was the shuffle of cards at the nurses' station. It was barely late afternoon, yet the hospital was already dark and quiet. Even the incessant overhead announcements seemed to have stopped. Any patient who could breathe on his own and had a normal temperature had been discharged earlier that morning. It was Christmas Day 1977.

My fourth baby was due on my mother's birthday, Dec. 6. I had plans. I would be in and out of the hospital and up and around in plenty of time to enjoy Christmas. It was going to be lots of fun at my house because I had 2-, 4- and 6-year-olds anxiously anticipating a visit from the real Santa Claus. Even more special, this year we would have a real live baby to use in the Nativity pageant we re- enacted each Christmas Eve.

As the sixth of December approached, the floors were scrubbed and the laundry folded. I was ready. Nothing happened. The days dragged on and on. I began to wonder if I would ever breathe, sit, stand, walk or sleep normal again. At every checkup, I would beg the doctor to start my labor. He smiled and said, "I'd rather nature takes its course, it won't be long." "Nature, schmature," I thought, I needed to get on with this NOW!

Fifteen days later seemed like eternity, but finally I could tell it was time. The hurried drive to the hospital was exciting with anticipation. Twenty-three hours later with the baby coming placenta previa, the decision was made to deliver by Caesarean section. An additional surgeon was summoned, and because of the urgency, my husband, who was fully gowned and anxious to participate, was relegated to waiting in the hall.

The operating room was bright with numerous lights and an array of shiny stainless steel. There was noisy chatter between the nurses and doctors mixed with background Christmas music from a radio. I was awake and was excited as I felt the pressure of the surgeon's knife draw a line down my stomach. It was instant relief.

When the water broke, I could finally breathe with ease. Dr. Rasmussen said it would only be a few more minutes before I was a lucky mom again. Suddenly, the room was dead silent. No one said a word. Someone had even turned off the radio. There was no baby cry, no congratulations and no movements by the medical staff. It was as if time had frozen.

I will never forget that chilling thought that my baby was dead. The doctor then whispered softly, "You have a boy." He held the small gray baby draped over one hand up above my head for me to see. The baby's eyes weren't pinched tightly shut from the brightness of the lights, but neither were they wide open. He didn't move at all; his arms and legs drooped down the sides of the doctor's hand like a toy sock monkey. He didn't have any eyelashes and only had small tufts of strawberry blond hair sticking through his thin scalp. His neck looked too skinny to support his head, and his ribs were outlined each time he took a breath. I thought he was beautiful.

Brady Eugene Blaser, named after an uncle and maternal grandpa, couldn't maintain a normal body temperature, so he was placed in an incubator in the nursery down the hall. Brady was originally labeled a "floppy baby." The doctors thought he only had a brain stem to maintain basic bodily functions and would be deaf and blind. He was diagnosed with a rare form of muscular dystrophy along with only seven known cases in the world. We were instructed to take Brady home and give him lots of love for the six weeks that the neurologist predicted that he would live.

On that Christmas Day, I lay in the hospital bed thinking about my baby that I had not yet held. I started to feel sorry for myself, alone and without family. Then I contemplated another mother on Christmas Day more than 2000 years ago. I wondered about her thoughts. Were they the same as mine? Did Mary wonder if her son would fit in society? Would people make fun of him or scorn him? Would he have any friends? Would they understand what his mission was all about?

Did she know that his life would be cut short? Could she have possibly known the impact he would have in the world and throughout history? Could I comprehend the influence my son would have on my family, friends, neighbors and me? I felt a kinship with Jesus' mother, Mary, that would be relived every Christmas thereafter. I felt I understood her. She, too, was a mother who dearly loved her son.

Brady celebrated his 24th birthday Christmas 2001 with an open house party that lasted all week. Although very sick and bedridden, he miraculously radiated happiness through his debilitating pain. He was loving and fun, a great listener and counted his friends in the hundreds. He called his family to his side and expressed his love for them. He died the next week. Once again as Christmas approaches, I will think of Mary and of Christmases past . . . hers and mine.

About the author

Earlene Blaser grew up in Cache Valley. She married Stephen Blaser 34 years ago, and they reside in Bountiful. They have eight children and nine grandchildren. Earlene enjoys working on family histories. She has written a book, "Emotional First Aid for Mothers," has choreographed high school musicals and was Utah Young Mother in 1987.