A Flash Before His Eyes

The Crucifixion by Andreas Pavias (ca 1440)

In early July, my husband and I were in the throes of baby preparation, but I didn’t know I would be preparing for my own death. Our first child was due on August second and we eagerly prepared for his or her coming (we waited to find out the sex). Our doula provided lactation and birth classes in the months leading up to the birth with all the standard preparatory courses: how to get a good latch, how the father can support the mother in this time of immense physical and physiological change, and which movements to do while in “labor-land.” 

One week before our son would ultimately make his arrival, we attended our final class with parents who had the similar idea to prepare for birth. Birthing balls and combs littered the room. We were inundated with information like the best position to move the baby past the pelvis and how to grasp the comb with the appropriate breathing technique during contractions. My husband was guided to squeeze my hips as contractions rose and fell–a skill he excelled in after the 42 hours of my laboring: the longest natural birth our hospital had seen in over fifteen years.

As we progressed through the slideshow on the stages of birth and what to expect, our doula paused to share “Recent research has found that unlike men who have their life flash before their eyes, mothers have the birth of their children flash before their eyes when they die.” 

— — —

My husband and I did not expect to be welcoming our first child in the first year of our marriage, partially because I had been told that there was a likelihood it would be difficult for me to get pregnant. This news was of no concern to us since having children was years off in our timeline. Ironically the day my doctor told me this news, I would notice a spot of blood in my underwear and receive a positive pregnancy test the following day. 

There was shock, frustration, perplexity; we felt it all, but as Catholics we had to swallow reality and accept that the first year of our marriage would demand immediate maturation. God saw that this child was who we needed, no matter how challenging it might be to accept.

Neither of us had changed a diaper before, but for the 39 weeks before we met our son, my husband and I read and watched all the parenting advice, we planned the baby showers, we chose which items would be best for our child. What we couldn’t prepare before birth, we accepted we would learn once our baby arrived. 

— — —

When the doula spoke those words, tears began to well in my overtly hormonal eyes. 

It dawned on me that on my deathbed my whole life would be summated into nearly two minutes of the deep memory of the birth of my child. No memories would sear me so much as meeting my child face to face. And, I thought of Christ, on the cross, his passion lasting from the evening of Maundy Thursday until his death in the afternoon on Good Friday–about 24 hours–the same time I would spend laboring in the hospital.  

I’ve been told of the suspicion that Christ saw all of our faces flash in His eyes when he died on the cross. God’s maternal nature, as he died on the cross, must have seen

how he labored to give birth to us, to create and nurture us, to see us face to face as He died for us. 

— — — 

When I die, I will see life being born in my child, how I co-created with God, and gave my body for His children. Through labor and birth I saw my humanity: my uterus failing to contract from exhaustion after 42 hours in labor. Christ drew my fingers to His side, to His humanity seen in the Garden of Gethsemane when he asked that the cup be taken from him. Christ pulled me through the wound in His side after those 42 hours. I saw how a quiet strength awoke within me, allowing me to deliver my son through the silence of the delivery room, through quiet breaths, and steady laboring. While I faced disappointment in my own human body, God knew and He showed me what He saw on the cross as I laid in the hospital bed.