I am now convinced it would have hurt more and forever haunted me had I not had that second chance to love Bella vulnerably and completely. Like so many lessons in life, what you think is simply a horrible incident in your life turns into one of the great blessings.
As it turned out, blessings abounded from my vulnerability that night. When that debate took place, I was at 3 percent in most of the polls in Iowa, and even lower (if that is possible) in national polls. With the exception of Ron Paul and me, everyone on that stage had been the front-runner for the Republican presidential nomination during 2011. At that time, Newt Gingrich had just become the fifth Republican to take the lead in national polls in the past six months (Romney, Bachmann, Perry, and Cain were the others), and reporters were beginning to ask what some would call unkind questions. “When are you getting out? What’s wrong with you? And aren’t you embarrassed?”
It would be a stretch to say the only debate of the campaign that was not televised by a national network was the turning point in our campaign, but I have no doubt it had an impact. For the next few weeks, the one question I received more than any other as I traveled Iowa was, “How’s Bella?” While the nation couldn’t watch the debate, caucus-goers did. I was told more than once that they appreciated our love and fight for Bella and the raw vulnerability I displayed when I spoke about her.
My vulnerability at the debate was not well received by everyone. My dear Karen was hurt, and it broke my heart that I hurt the person I love more than anything in the world. She was upset that I shared my personal struggle, and she thought it was too private to open up to the world about. There are things that stay between a husband and a wife. We’ve been to the depths of each other’s hearts and souls, and this privacy is almost sacred ground in a marriage. I should have explained things better, more thoroughly. What probably upset her more were the words I’d used to describe my feelings toward Bella. In the emotion of the moment, what I’d meant to say was not what came out of my mouth.
What I said was “I decided that the best thing I could do was to treat her differently and not love her as much because it wouldn’t hurt as much if I lost her.” Telling a story for the first time creates energy and emotional connections with the audience because it is so obviously raw. So raw is good, but it’s also new and . . . words don’t come out the way you want.
I meant to say “and not love her as much as I love my other children—” but that is not what came out.
It hurt Karen because, as the mother of a Trisomy 18 child, she is all too aware of how so many in the world see them as less, and therefore not deserving of being treated like other children. In her eyes one of the most outspoken pro-life warriors, a well-known Catholic, and a dad of a special-needs girl had confirmed that sentiment to the world. I related to her that we had been tracking social media, and no one in the press or even on the blogs had interpreted my remarks that way, but that didn’t matter. After this incident Karen was even more opposed to bringing up Bella in the context of the campaign. I agreed, but that moment of exposing the vulnerability that comes with love had sparked an interest in Bella that was not going to subside.
13
LOVE UNIFIES
• Karen Santorum •
“Have you not read that he who made them from the beginning made them male and female, and said, ‘For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one’? So they are no longer two but one. What therefore God has joined together, let not man put asunder.”
—MATTHEW 19:4–6
I, Karen, take you, Rick, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”
Staring into the eyes of the man I loved, I uttered these words as my own eyes filled with tears. Dressed in white lace and standing at the altar in a majestic Gothic chapel with stained-glass windows reaching up to heaven, I promised him, before God, a lifetime of love and fidelity, to honor and to care for him from this day forward. He promised the same in return. Finishing, I placed a gold ring on his finger. Looking at each other, we smiled. He squeezed my hand. In those blissful moments, my heart nearly burst with joy as I anticipated the prospect of forever with this man. I could not have loved him more.
In those sacred, life-changing moments, you envision a lifetime of shared joy and adventure. Two become one. Your journey together begins. When you say, “I do,” it is hard to understand the full breadth of those vows. I do promise to love you always and faithfully. I do promise to honor you and grow with you. I do promise to care for you in sickness and in health. I do promise to weather any storm. Any and every storm.
During the sacredness of that Mass, I thought about the Song of Songs from the Old Testament and the mystery and depth of marital love. The covenant Rick and I were entering into joined us together in a sacred union. When we were dating, we would talk about building a stone castle around our marriage so that nothing would ever come between us. Looking around me, I observed that the chapel in which we were being married was built from limestone, something so strong that it lasts forever and stands the storms of time. The architectural details were impressive and breathtaking. All the woodwork in the chapel was made from oak, one of the strongest woods in the world. I prayed this would also be my marriage: strong, stable, and able to withstand any storm that may come our way; however, at that point in my life, I was convinced this life would be spent in a garden, a bed of roses. Sure, there would be rainstorms and maybe a rumble of thunder, but hurricanes happened to other people.
Back when Rick and I were dating, I worked as a neonatal intensive care nurse while putting myself through law school. I took classes during the day and worked at the hospital at night. I was terribly busy but had the energy of a young woman who felt she had the world at her feet. Everything was new, exciting, and promising. Some of the Pittsburgh law firms were interested in hiring me, and on one of the evenings when they wine and dine you, I realized someone other than the law firm was trying to pick me up.
Rick was an associate at the law firm and one of the lawyers who took me out for dinner that evening. We hit it off instantly. I always said it was love at first laugh, because he had me in stitches all night. He was so handsome, carefree, and funny, not stiff or formal. After dinner we went to a comedy show, and he sang Christmas carols all the way there, even though it was early November.
The joy in the simplicity of watching Rick sing as we were walking through the streets of Pittsburgh was refreshing. When Rick and I met, even though on the surface I was on top of the world, I was going through a horrible phase of life. I was an energetic nurse and determined law student but also a foolish girl making a lot of stupid and sinful decisions. I thought that doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, was freedom and that it would lead to happiness. But instead, it only led to loneliness.
I became a slave to my own desires. My self-seeking will became the rule of my life, I didn’t have time for God, and I convinced myself that He wanted nothing to do with me. How could He? After all I had done, surely God could only hold disdain for me. Falling away from the grace of God had put me in the loneliest place in the world.
But then it all changed. I will never forget the moment. I was out to lunch with a dear nurse friend of mine, Gretchen, and she simply said, “Karen, God loves you.” It stunned me to hear her say this. Because of my wayward ways and lack of formation in the faith, I didn’t think God could possibly love me after all my bad decisions. I thought about Gretchen’s words constantly for a few days, torn between disbelief and hope. I wanted her words to be true; I wanted to believe I could be forgiven.
A few days later, after a tremendous amount of thought and soul-searching, I walked into Saint Paul Cathedral, the mother church of the Diocese of Pittsburgh. I gazed up at the gables, spandrels, frescoes, and stained-glass windows depicting the life of Christ; it was breathtakingly beautiful, and I was in awe
. But my heart was heavy, and I could not hold back the tears. Intimidated by the holiness of the place, I felt small and unworthy to be there. I was also afraid of the huge step I was about to take, because I thought the priest would yell at me; instead, after hearing my thorough and heart-wrenching confession, he was loving and compassionate.
He quoted 1 John 1:9: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just, and will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” I will never forget him saying, “Welcome home. God is so happy you’re here.” He told me to not be afraid and to allow myself to be purified by the grace of God and to be free from the slavery of sin.
I sat in church for hours, weeping after that very painful but liberating confession. At one point, a sweet elderly lady tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was all right. Smiling through the tears, all I could say was, “Yes, I’m going to be all right.”
Gretchen’s and the priest’s words completely changed my life. The fact that God loved me, even though I had fallen again and again, comforted me and ignited a fire deep within my soul. Despite all my failings, I was welcomed back into God’s embrace, and I knew joy that I had not felt for many years. He loved me and was waiting for me to come home. Forgiven. Free. A love so huge and unconditional was beyond my comprehension. That was when my spiritual journey began.
To this day I thank God with all my heart for His love and mercy. His mercy is infinite, and there is no sin so great that He will not forgive it. The image of the Father standing on the porch and waiting, longing for His lost prodigal son to return home, will always hold a special place in my heart, because that was me. My dear parents, who had prayed for years for me, rejoiced at my return home. I longed to know Christ. I wanted to love Him with all my heart, all my mind, and all my might. It felt so good to be home.
Years later, my spiritual director told me, “Karen, do you ever think God allowed that time for a reason? It made you the passionate woman you are today. Would Mary Magdalene have received the forgiveness of Christ if she had not sinned? Would King David have been filled with humility if not for his sins? Would Saint Augustine have been a great spiritual leader if it were not for his sinfulness? Often it’s the ones who have fallen that teach the greatest lessons in faith.” There’s no doubt that the dark time in my life fortified the convictions I now have.
When Rick and I met, we both knew we wanted more out of our lives. After my confession, I believed the void we felt could only be filled with the grace of God. When people ask how we met, I tell them God brought us together. After we began to center our lives around our faith, everything changed. I look back on those dating days with a carefree nostalgia that always brings a smile to my face. We were freed and renewed.
Rick and I went to restaurants all over town, trying out every type of food. We went to sports games and concerts, but also had many coffee dates and simple picnics. We would spend hours talking about everything in the world, and we walked everywhere. We went to church and prayed together. He sent the most beautiful flowers: colorful roses, fragrant gardenias, and soft hydrangeas. We had our favorite haunts, shared dreams, and the same faith. It was perfect. And even when it wasn’t, we made it better.
One night, when Rick and I got into a squabble about something I can’t even remember, I insisted that he drive me home and refused to talk to him. At home, after my phone rang again and again, it stopped, and I thought he had given up. I cracked open a textbook on my bed and tried to focus. Fine. He didn’t have to call. Then I heard a clink at the window, and then another one. I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. Rick was standing on the grass below with a handful of pebbles.
Opening the window a crack, I whispered, “Go away!”
He smiled. “Not a chance! I’m just going to sing louder and louder until you come down, Karen!”
I closed the window and crossed my arms. As I turned to walk away, the lyrics of “The Way You Look Tonight” drifted up to me. Turning, I opened the window again and said, “Quiet, you’ll wake up the neighbors!” He sang louder and changed the lyrics to “I won’t go away until you come down here, just the way you look tonight.” By then I was smiling as I grabbed my coat. I couldn’t help it. He was just too sweet and lovable.
At a local hospital, I worked in a neonatal intensive care unit (NICU), which is a specialized area for preemies and newborns with serious complications or illnesses. It was a large, level III NICU. After working there for several years, I’d seen almost every type of case. From Siamese twins to babies born with all kinds of birth defects, illnesses, or disease, and babies born so small they could fit in the palm of my hand, we helped many special children get another shot at life. I loved working in the NICU and experienced medicine at its best when physicians and nurses worked together, using all their knowledge and skills to stabilize a child and save a life.
Many of the physicians and nurses poured their lives into taking care of those babies. They were special people, very caring and compassionate. I loved the intensity of the triage unit and having the opportunity to hold the babies in the convalescent rooms. Life in the NICU was demanding—on your feet all day, and always new skills, diagnoses, and treatments to learn. Double shifts were common, as the units were frequently short staffed, but I was happy to work overtime because I loved taking care of the babies. I was deeply moved and inspired by the parents who loved and cared for their infants unconditionally, and it broke my heart when babies were abandoned or had to go through the suffering of detox. To this day, I still think about many of the babies I cared for and wonder what their lives are like now and if they are healthy and happy.
On one of our dates, Rick asked me what it was like to work in the NICU. “It’s very rewarding work. We see a lot of complicated cases and help a good number of them. I’m lucky enough to work with the smallest babies, most of them with all sorts of health issues and disabilities. It’s been very eye-opening.”
Nodding, he asked what cases stood out in my mind. As I sat in that restaurant booth, curly haired, career driven, and so young, I remembered a special case. “I once treated a baby girl with anencephaly. She was born without a brain and lived for two days. Her parents were so kind and, do you know, they didn’t leave their baby alone for one minute of her two days of life? They held her, sang to her, and loved her for her entire short life. It’s their love that stands out so clearly in my mind. Their unselfish, giving love impressed upon my heart.” I started to say something more, then fell silent as I poked at my food, brow furrowed.
“What are you thinking?” Rick asked.
Looking back at him, I said, “I don’t think I could ever do that. Losing a child would be the worst thing in the world.” After a moment I added, “I just hope that never happens to me.”
Eight years later, I remembered that night and my words as I watched a grave being dug for a very small casket. In it was my son Gabriel Michael. Named after two of the great archangels, he now joined them in the heavenly host. Several months into my fourth pregnancy, as mentioned in a previous chapter, Gabriel was born prematurely with serious complications. He lived for two precious hours in our arms, knowing only love.
I remember lying in my bed after the funeral. Curled up in a ball, my eyes dried from countless tears and nights without sleep, I stared at the wall. Watching shadows play from a candle on my nightstand and feeling completely drained and empty, I wanted to remain in the shadows, because I felt I couldn’t bear to live in the light. In those dark days, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel became a conscious effort. When you lose a child, it’s as though your heart has been wrenched out. You feel nothing, then everything. And it is so hard to hope.
Now, after years of marriage, I was so sure I would never be the same again. How could Rick and I be the same again? I’d heard that the death of a child is the hardest experience for a couple to go through. Now, I had no doubts that was true. By this time, Rick and I had weathered many storms together: campaigns, moves, and th
e daily grind of balancing professional and family life while going at what seemed like supersonic speed during campaigns. Nothing, however, was worse or more challenging to get through than losing Gabriel. A frightening tempest assailed the castle we had built around our marriage, and the rose garden I’d imagined vanished from memory.
We grieved differently, but we grieved together. Both of us felt the emptiness of loss and the acute sting of sorrow. No parent should have to bury a child. There is something so painfully unnatural about it. Angry with God and confused, I thought about how God had spared Abraham the pain of loss by staying his hand and saving Isaac’s life. Why did He not spare Gabriel’s life? I struggled. And I grieved.
But time healed us, and we found that there truly was a light at the end of the tunnel. We had our three children. We had our faith. We had each other. Through the dark journey in between, when all seemed hollow and without purpose, Rick and I stood by each other. We confided in each other, held each other, opened up, and prayed together. Those open lines of communication and our shared faith kept us close as tragedy tried to drive us apart. I remembered that sacred vow we had made to each other and to God: “I promise to be true to you, in good times and in bad.” Losing Gabriel put these vows to the test and purified us, together, through the flames of grief.
During my pregnancy with Gabriel, I wrote a series of letters to my little son, and these letters later became the book Letters to Gabriel. I hoped the story of my grief would help other parents who knew the pain of losing a child. Publishing that book also became a way of healing for Rick and me. Together, we tried to live out our vows to love each other, even when we both were burdened by loss. Our emotions were raw, exposed, and honestly expressed. We learned deep lessons about gut-wrenching honesty in our relationship with each other and, in the process, plumbed even deeper into the mystery that lies at the heart of real love.
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