At a Glance
The Corn Plant
BRET AND I BOTH GREW UP CRADLED in the lap of the Wasatch Mountains. Inside the valley lived everyone we loved. Both of our parents, all our grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins lived close enough to share Sunday dinner.
Instead of valuing the abundance of family, however, we felt cloistered. We were thrilled when employment moved us two time zones away.
Alone in our tiny apartment, we felt like truant children who had sneaked off campus into an exciting adventure. Even when my water broke after only seven months of pregnancy, we still felt entirely carefree. We called the doctor simply because we were curious about what had happened. When he told me to report to the hospital, I didn’t even bring a toothbrush.
Our naïveté was shattered when we learned our baby was going to be born prematurely. Day after day I lay alone in a hospital bed, growing less carefree and more discouraged with each passing hour. Eventually my body started contracting; labor lasted for days. Relief came only through diligent application of Lamaze techniques.
At last our son was born, and we glanced only briefly at his tiny body before it was whisked away toward the tubes and wires and machines that would keep him alive. My own body shook with exhaustion; warm blankets had to be wrapped around my limbs and trunk so I could sleep.
Upon waking, I begged to see my son. My husband pushed me in a wheelchair through endless hospital corridors until we reached the neonatal intensive care unit. There he maneuvered the wheelchair past a series of incubators, searching for the baby we had brought into this world. Unable to find our son, we fearfully returned to the nurses’ station. A nurse escorted us to an incubator, one we had already passed. I thought she made a mistake. I had never seen a human as tiny as the form in the incubator. His red skin hung loosely, like borrowed pajamas on his fragile frame. The crop of black hair on his head was shaved in patches so doctors could find veins large enough to insert their numerous needles.
Neither Bret nor I suppressed our sobs. I buried my face in his chest and bawled—deep, body-wracking cries, muffled only by his desperate embrace. We had no words to comfort each other. The two of us returned to my hospital room in silence, our eyes raw with weeping.
My roommate was in the high-risk maternity bed beside me because her baby had been born in a van on the way to the hospital. He had survived without a scratch. Family and friends came in droves to meet the tiny celebrity. At night the baby sucked nosily at her breast, and the proud mama copiously cooed five feet from my ear.
Moving away from home had suddenly become a nightmare. If we were still living out West we would have parents and grandparents, as well as aunts and uncles and cousins all crowding around my bedside. The independence we had embraced with such enthusiasm now felt like barren loneliness. I wanted my husband to quit his job, pack the house, and move me and our tiny baby back home.
Then, thankfully, my sisters in the gospel started to arrive: all three members of the Relief Society presidency. They brought a miniature corn plant wrapped in a calico-covered pot. The houseplant resembled an actual stalk of corn, with broad green leaves striped with gold, blooming from a center six-inch cane. Although it was tiny, I knew it could grow taller than a man.
Soon afterward a brother came—the bishop. He wanted to know if he could give my husband and me a blessing. I don’t remember whether he blessed our son or not, but I will never forget how he blessed us.
More sisters from church threw a baby shower, caring women who had no idea if the tiny figure in the ICU would live. Full of faith, they brought presents anyway: premie-sized sleepers and Onesies that would fit a doll. Surrounded by these women, with their hearts full of hope, I dared to believe, to hope that our baby would use their gifts.
Of all the gifts we received from our surrogate family, the corn plant was my favorite. The little tuft of green grew tall as my tiny son grew stronger. It was soon too large for the calico pot, and I transplanted it into a larger ceramic pot. It has followed us through five moves and numerous years.
Each time I have a baby, I have added another corn plant to my pot. Their company fills me with hope and serenity. They have grown tall, and they extend their green and gold arms toward me like a room full of sisters.
JeaNette is a licensed marriage and family therapist in private practice and the author of the Deseret Book publication, Side by Side: Supporting a Spouse in Church Service. She and her husband, Bret, are the parents of four children, and they reside in Florida.
