Starting a Family
Life in your twenties feels like the world is finally yours. You’ve scraped through the early bumps and bruises of life, and now, you’re convinced you have it all figured out. The possibilities seem endless. For me, I always knew my dream: to be a wife and a mother. I had a natural connection with children, an endless well of patience, and a love for babysitting that started in my tween and teen years. Back then, it certainly wasn’t for the money—I earned a whopping dollar an hour per kid—but I loved every chaotic, sticky, magical minute of it.
I wanted my soulmate, my perfect match, my best friend. After a few misses, I found him. I realized almost immediately that he was the one. It took him a little longer, but eventually, he caught up. We started dating in February 1992, and by Easter weekend of 1993, we were engaged. I have ADHD and a tendency to jump ahead—put the cart before the horse. I knew we were going to get married, but he was finishing his senior year of college and wanted to wait until graduation. I understood completely. But when my mom was visiting for Easter, and the bridal shop was having a huge sale, what else could a young, in-love girl do but go wedding dress shopping? I bought my dress on Friday, and Jeff proposed on Saturday. I was young, not always confident in myself, but I was certain I would marry him. And now, nearly three decades later, our 28th anniversary is coming up this October.
Pregnancy Journey
Marriage brought its own excitement, and by spring of 1995, I found out I was pregnant. We hadn’t been trying long, so the news was a thrilling surprise. But the joy came with challenges. Morning sickness hit me hard—constant vomiting left me dehydrated and weak, and I lost 20 pounds in just a few months. An overnight hospital stay and guidance from a nutritionist eventually got me back on track. But in the final month, pre-eclampsia set in. My blood pressure soared, and I was prescribed Phenobarbital and strict bed rest. My due date was January 20, 1996. After a tense weekend and a Friday appointment, my doctor decided it was time—but my body wasn’t cooperating, so induction was scheduled for Monday the 22nd. My mom was in town for the birth of her first grandchild, and we were ready.
That Friday night, Jeff, my mom, and I had a relaxing dinner, trying to soak in the calm before the storm. I drifted into vivid dreams of labor, so real I could feel the contractions—and then I woke to find my water had actually broken. Real labor had begun. Eighteen long hours followed. My son, Hunter, had fallen asleep in the birth canal, and for a moment, a C-section seemed inevitable. But a remarkable nurse encouraged us: “Don’t worry! We can do this! Let’s wake this baby up!” And we did.
Hunter Todd arrived at 8 lbs 2 oz, a big, beautiful boy. He was dehydrated and had low blood sugar, consequences of sleeping through his entrance into the world. He stayed in the hospital an extra day, which made leaving without him almost unbearable. But finally, we brought him home, and life truly began. I was a mother, I was whole, and I had my little family. We felt invincible, and for a time, nothing could touch our happiness.
The Fatal Accident
Then, on Monday, June 24, 1996, the unthinkable happened. Hunter was five months old. I had left him with my mother-in-law while running errands. Back then, car safety rules were different—he was in a front-seat car seat. Turning left at an intersection, a car came out of nowhere, T-boning our car. The impact spun us nearly 360 degrees. I broke my wrist and smelled the harsh burn of deployed airbags, a memory still vivid 25 years later.
Hunter had taken the full impact and his tiny heart stopped once in the ambulance. He was flown to Le Bonheur with Life Flight. After hours of testing, the doctors had to confirm the worst: he was brain dead. By law, they repeated tests every few hours for 12 hours. That night was the longest of my life. On Tuesday morning, June 25th, Hunter was declared dead—five months and five days old. In our grief, Jeff and I chose to donate his organs. Five lives were saved: four children and one mother.
Family Grieving
Leaving the hospital without Hunter was a heartbreak I could hardly bear. I couldn’t go home; the memories were too fresh, too raw. Friends and family supported us, giving us a place to stay for a week. On Wednesday, June 26, we planned Hunter’s funeral. We were numb, barely able to function. By Friday, June 28, we laid him to rest.
The grief compounded. The day before the funeral, my uncle suffered a heart attack. The day after, my mom had one, too—likely from heartbreak. Life seemed unbearably cruel. Yet somehow, we survived. The first year without Hunter was filled with agonizing “firsts”—first holidays, first birthdays—all shadowed by the child we never got to fully know. I sank into depression, Jeff threw himself into work, and the anger and pain were suffocating.
One day, a charity call triggered an explosion of emotion. I told the caller off, my anger breaking through years of politeness. Months later, I finally sought help, attending counseling and joining Compassionate Friends, a grief support group. Slowly, the healing began.
Starting to Heal
Life didn’t stop. Two years after losing Hunter, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl. During pregnancy, I prayed for a daughter, not because I didn’t want another boy, but because I feared losing another son. Seven years later, we welcomed our second son, our biggest baby yet at nine pounds. Each time, I silently measured milestones: five months, six days—a strange talisman for survival in my heart.
Grief never fully leaves, but it softens. The pain of losing Hunter is still there, yet now, the first thoughts of him are happy, not devastating. I learned to live with both the sorrow and the joy, to find grace for myself and others, and to understand that moving forward is not betrayal—it is life continuing. There is hope, there is happiness, and there is peace.
It’s been 25 years. Hunter’s absence is a constant shadow, yet my life is rich and full. I have learned that God tests, not punishes. Bad things happen, but they don’t define the good. Life continues, and when you learn to appreciate the good, it shines even brighter.
