Starra - Reflections on Your 40th Birthday

You would be eighteen today. I know because each time I’ve dated a paper, a shadow crossed my heart.

This this the way I started the tale - “Starra - Reflections on Your Eighteenth Birthday.” Though copy of

the story was mislaid years ago - my memories of your story with me are still as vivid.

It started simply long ago. A too young girl gets pregnant and marries her too young boyfriend. He was

twenty. I was sixteen when your life began; seventeen when it would end. Both sets of parents looked like

they were at a funeral in our wedding photos, but I was convinced we would show them all. I’d show

them. I’d be a good mother.

The day finally arrived when you were ready to be born. It was exactly on your expected due date, but we

weren’t going to hurry to the hospital - oh no. They told us in Lamaze class that first labor experiences are

often long and there was no need to rush. I had listened. It would be by the book.

We were calm, however, when we did drive to the hospital, I contemplated - wouldn’t this be the best

excuse for speeding? If we were stopped, Johnny could say, “Officer, I’m sorry but I’m afraid we must be

going. My wife is in labor and we’ve lost time already.” Then maybe we’d even get an escort! But instead,

all was calm. We moved methodically and soon I was there situated in a delivery room. Your heartbeat

was strong and I was not dilated much so we were told we would be there a while. About this labor thing -

I felt like I’d just boarded a thrill-seeker’s ride and found I wasn’t prepared for the excitement. I was going

to hang in there though. Not much else I could do.

After what seemed an eternity, the doctor told us you were coming breach and I would need a cesarean

section. I didn’t argue. Honestly, stopping this labor thing, even with surgery, sounded like a terrific idea.

So they started preparing me and asking me questions like what type of anesthesia I wanted. Then, as

they were shaving me, one of the nurses said she was having trouble finding your heartbeat. They

stopped asking me questions and rushed me to the operating room. I didn’t really comprehend the rush.

Your dad knew before I did. I can’t imagine what that was like. I woke up to a nurse leaning over me. She

had tears in her eyes. I said, “Baby. Is the baby alright?” She shook her head. I said, “Baby - is the baby

alive?” She shook her head no again as she cried. I screamed. Then I heard Johnny say, “Please, please

put her back out.” I felt the tingle of something in my IV and I was adrift.

A couple days went by in a medicated haze. I didn’t believe you were gone. They had to be lying. Then

she walked in - a peppy little thing, and she was pushing a bassinet towards me. I started crying. “Baby,

my baby’s alive?” A look of horror crossed her face as she realized what she had done by entering my

room. I was inconsolable. The man with the mortuary came, though, to see me after that. He did me the

biggest favor. He said that I had to come see you. I had told Johnny to have your funeral without me, but

he said I never would accept that you were gone if I didn’t see you and touch you, so I did. You were

beautiful. You had wisps of dark hair and rosebud lips. I couldn’t bring myself to hold you, but I touched

your cheek. Mother dressed you.

The funeral director did us another favor. He said we wouldn’t be guilty of loving you less if we didn’t go

into debt for an expensive coffin. So, I saw you last in a styrofoam box. A friend at the funeral later said it

looked like a picnic cooler. Got to love your friends. You were buried on your father’s twenty-first birthday.

We couldn’t afford a headstone, but your grandparents bought one engraved simply, “Our Baby - Starra

Brianna Whatley.” About your name - we had picked Starra Brianna. Brianna after Johnny’s middle name

and Starra because you would be our star. We didn’t have a boy’s name picked out yet. Maybe we knew

somehow.

After five days in the hospital and the funeral, I went home to grieve as did your dad. For weeks I lost my

temper. I screamed at God for whatever He was thinking when he decided I didn’t deserve a baby. I cried.

I threw dishes at the wall from time to time. I dealt with the well-meaning folks who said, “Everything

happens for a reason.” Your dad grieved too, but differently - silently. Until one night I found him in the

street out in front of our house drunker than the proverbial skunk and shouting at God or the stars for

answers. They never came.

The great “They” say that life goes on and it did. The world continued to turn, but I didn’t understand how

life could go on. People were getting up, going to work, going to play…. didn’t they know about you?

I would start to recover when something would happen to remind me of you. Like a diaper coupon in the

mail or running into some old friend who saw me last with my nine-month belly. “You look great! Did you

have a boy or a girl”? I had you. A girl with rosebud lips. A girl that was perfect in every way except you

were some 1 in 3000 statistic. You turned and strangled yourself on the umbilical cord during birth.

When you first passed away, we started receiving an annual bill for, I think 50 dollars, for cemetery

maintenance fees. If we would pay a larger fee we could do away with an annual bill. I was upset at first

that we could not afford the extra money to do away with the yearly reminder, but later I began to

appreciate the memory. I got to share a little time with you on earth - however short.

Now I look back to your growing up and beyond and wonder, Starra - what would you have been like

growing up? As a teen would you have tattooed arms and a pierced tongue? Would you have known your

beauty and your worth, or have been as insecure as me? And into adulthood what must your path have

been - something bold and adventurous? So many questions I must ask.

I’ll never know the reasons why we had each other those nine months. I only know that I still treasure you.

I have a picture of me at seventeen. It is my favorite because you were with me. Your daddy passed in

2011. I trust he was finally able to tell you all the things in his heart. Happy birthday, Starra. You would be

forty today!

Miriam Shanks

September 8, 2020

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