When my son Jacob was born on July 11, 1997 he was a very sick boy. Non-Immune Hydrops Syndrome is as bad as it gets when you a pre-term baby at 30 weeks. Hydrops is characterized fluid build up whereby the fetus takes on massive fluid within the body cavity. In Jacob’s case he was born at 30 weeks at more then nine pounds, six of which was fluid build up from the syndrome.
The doctors predicted the worst, a mere 10% chance of living. If he lives, they said, there is greater than a 50% he is likely to have severe brain damage resulting in mental retardation. In addition, it is likely that his lungs will be severely damaged thus requiring supplemental oxygen, perhaps for the duration of his life. And moreover, if he lives, his life is likely to be brief, perhaps just a few years.
I walked out of the examination room in Omaha, Nebraska so I wouldn’t be seen by anyone and utterly collapsed. I was sobbing so uncontrollably I couldn’t speak. I immediately began to search for a phone as the tears streamed down my face. People tried to help me, but I couldn’t put a sentence together. I just pushed them off and kept searching for a phone. I just needed to find a phone and place a call.
I needed to call the person I called at every critical moment of my life over the past three decades.
I needed to call my mom.
She answered immediately and I poured out the story between sobs. She listened intently and asked several questions. Clearly grasping the gravity of the situation she pulled me up short raising her voice just enough: “Son listen to me!” she said again “listen to me!”. I calmed down and listened. And she said something I will never forget: “Son just put your baby in the hands of God.”
My mom, June Hyacinth Rossiter Stockwell died peacefully in her sleep this morning of natural causes. She was 83 and had been suffering from the debilitating effects of several severe strokes for nearly a decade. It is a cruel irony that those that seem to be the most pious, faithful and giving seem to suffer the most.
In life she never asked for anything and leaves the world as she entered it, with no material wealth of any kind despite being born into a wealthy family. She does depart though as perhaps the richest person I have ever known, as witnessed by of the outpouring of love from her surviving 11 children, 34 grandchildren, 5 great grandchildren, two surviving sisters and untold numbers of friends.
June was born on December 16th, 1921 on an Indian reservation at Winnebago, Nebraska. Her father Emmit Rossiter was a prominent banker whose family of seven children soon relocated to Hartington where she grew up with her sisters Mary, Connie, Anne, Joanie and brothers Vincent and Lawrence.
On July 4th, 1945 she married her high school sweetheart, Lt. Col. John Henry Stockwell, USAF (ret.) also of Hartington. Together they embarked on a 23-year military career moving over a dozen times living in Germany, France, California, Washington, Arizona, New York, Virgina and Nebraska, where they purchased the family home, while John was deployed to the Korean War. During this period their family kept growing and growing producing eight sons (Forrest, Chris, Mark, Guy, Scott, Tom, Kelly and myself) and three daughters (Jane, Jill and Mary). Two infants were lost at birth.
My parents retired back to their hometown, Hartington, Nebraska in 1969 with 10 kids still at home and eldest Forrest serving in Vietnam.
June’s life was characterized by faith, service and sacrifice. Not only did she raise 11 kids; all went to college and several achieved advanced degrees, but she also served as secretary for John’s business interests for 20 years after his military retirement. In addition, she was a three-term school board member and an active lay person at church gracing the lectern as cantor with her elegant soprano for nearly 30 years. She was a prayer group member and friend to many who admired her ability to hold it all together. The laundry and feeding of the family alone would have overwhelmed most of us. She paid the orthodontist $50 per month for more than a decade to put braces on four of us.
June had a few pleasures in life. Chief among them was her sisters and perhaps dearest friends Joanie, Connie and Annie. She drew confidence from her comedian sister Joanie, a touch of reality from Connie and strength of kinship from Annie.
June will live on in all of us. She provided us all great comfort and was there for all of us in times of need.
Thus when the doctors moved us to Kansas City to the neo-natal unit at Shawnee Mission for Jacob’s emergency C-section I continued the conversation with her. In further instructions June implored me to pray for a miracle. I did so intensely.
Jacob’s first moments of life were difficult to say the least. The doctors worked fast on the C-section with only five minutes elapsing until the boy was on the table. Purple from lack of oxygen and bloated to the extreme due to the fluid retained in his body (twice his body weight, he would lose six pounds in the first three days). His mother cried out: “Is he breathing !” Answer: “No.”
The C-section team moved away and another team of nine neo-natal practitioners moved in. Incisions were made in his chest cavity; tubes were inserted between the ribs. Two large syringes were produced. Simultaneously, two nurses attached the syringes and filled the tubes with bright yellow amniotic fluid from his chest cavity. Another two doctors were working in tandem and inserted a breathing tube into his lungs. The entire team of nine worked for ten hours straight beating back multiple challenges.
An Episcopalian priest hovered with a lavender silk sash with gold trim on the sides draped over his folded hands. In the absence of a Catholic priest he stood by and ready to administer the Catholic sacrament of the sick and dying.
It would never be needed. On three separate occasions during the first three days the doctors prepared us for the worst, the Episcopalian priest hovering each time. At one particular moment the doctors asked Jacob’s mother Sherry to place her hands on him and talk to the boy. At that very moment, I believe the moment that June’s miracle kicked in, the boy’s oxygen saturation levels began to increase on the monitor.
One need only look at his picture to see how he turned out. Indeed a miracle.
I believe to this day this was June’s miracle and that for just a moment in my own life I got to experience faith as she felt it throughout the entirety of hers. It is yet another lesson she has taught my family members and me.
But she is gone now. Whom will I call in time of need?
The answer is easy. She is smiling now because she taught us just what to do.
Note: Arrangements will be handled by the Wintz Funeral Home in Hartington, Nebraska. She will be laid to rest with my father at St. Michael's Cemetery in Hartington over the Labor Day weekend.
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