A Mother’s Death and Resurrection

In August 2012, just one month after Katherine Belle’s first birthday, I found myself sobbing hysterically in my doctor’s office following a series of scary panic attacks. “Was there much stress in my life?” she asked. “Yes,” I responded. “My grandfather recently passed away and the chief of staff at work had suddenly died just two days ago.  And…and I am worried about my daughter.”


At daycare, Katherine Belle made her mark in the nursery as the fastest crawler of the bunch, even earning the nickname “Flash” for her speed. She was reaching developmental milestones ahead of time and I recall worrying that she would be walking as early as nine months.


Instead, as the months passed, I watched her peers, and eventually younger children, take their first steps while my daughter continued to crawl at their feet.  I felt silly to worry.  After all, she was only 13 months old … then 14 months … then 15 months.  Many moms reassured me that their own children did not walk until later. My husband’s aunt did not walk until she was almost two. Research reassured me that walking as late as 17 months was within the normal developmental range.

“Any day now…” and “you will wish she was not walking when you are chasing her all over the place” were common phrases I heard during this time.  When she still was not walking by 15 months old, I decided to seek the assistance of physical therapy. I silently struggled greatly during this time. My motherly instincts told me that something was not quite right.  Despite weekly visits to occupational and physical therapists, she still was not walking as she approached her second birthday.

I sought solace in the outdoors, taking daily walks on my lunch break at work to observe and photograph the beauty around me.  Only then was I able to stop worrying and enjoy a moment of peace. Photography was my therapy, my outlet, my voice. I looked for hope everywhere and would take a photograph to remind myself that hope existed and was right in front of me; however, I needed my camera to show me.


But still, there were many lonely, stormy days.


I did not want to worry my husband too much with my fears.  Truthfully, I could not even say what I feared, except that I just had a feeling that something was wrong.  What, I did not know? I held out hope that she just had low muscle tone, which she obviously had. And sensory processing issues, which she had as well. But as she approached her second birthday, I began to ask myself the really hard questions.  Why wasn’t she walking?  Would she ever walk?  Is there something more we should be doing? Is there a more serious underlying issue?


At her two-year appointment in July, her pediatrician nervously said, “And now for the hard stuff of today’s visit.  I am concerned that she is not walking independently.  Did you have a difficult birth, any head injuries or an accident?”  “No,” I responded with a lump in my throat.  “Well,” he continued, “I want to refer you to a neurologist just to be sure. She really should be walking at two years old.”

In August, we met with two neurologists and told them her history.  They agreed it best to perform an MRI in a couple of weeks to see if there was anything going on in her brain.  We were out of town and decided to visit the local zoo the next day to lighten the mood and have some fun.


It was blistering hot that day, so I took Katherine Belle to stand in the shade while my husband stood in a long line for tickets. We were sitting on the curb when a young man in a wheelchair looked over at us and backed up beside us.  His name was Donny and he asked how we were doing.  We made the usual chit chat about the weather and the zoo.  He asked where we were from and why we were in town. I told him we were visiting the local hospital because our daughter could not walk and we did not know why.  He shared his personal story with me.  There were terrible complications during his birth. He died briefly before being resurrected.  His mother struggled.  There were many surgeries. His life had been very difficult, but he was alive and telling me his story. He had strong faith in God and believed there was a reason he had been brought back to life.  His body may have been paralyzed but his mind was sharp and he was very articulate.

Then he said something to me that I will never forget: “I knew you were a kind soul and that you would not be afraid to talk to me because of my condition. I believe God put us together today so I could talk to you.”  Lastly, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Everything is going to be okay.” A moment later his guide came up with their tickets and he was gone.

I sat on that curb and cried. I cried so hard that I could barely breathe.  I felt as though Donny was the first person who truly understood how much I was suffering — even more than I realized. At that moment, out in the open and in front of a very crowded zoo entrance, I let it all go. A year’s worth of worry and anxiety flowed out of my body.  My husband soon appeared and took me to the gift shop where I was able to gain some composure.

In my husband’s January 27, 2014, post, “Faith. Hope. Love.,” he describes what followed next:

On Friday, August 30, 2013, I received a phone call that would forever change my life and the lives of my beloved wife, Glenda, and daughter, Katherine Belle. Medical terminology and nuance aside for the moment (medical terminology and nuance will fill future posts), the call was to tell us this: your daughter is going to die. This was not in some philosophical sense that “we are all going to die,” or a homily that “no one is promised tomorrow.” It came with a medical explanation of how she was currently dying, and the only promise was that tomorrow — or tomorrow’s tomorrow — would never come for Katherine.

I had prepared myself for bad news, but nothing prepares a mother for the news that her child is going to die of a rare genetic disorder.  Now I fully understand why the mind erases tragically painful moments.  The pain is enough to kill a person.  As my legs gave out beneath me, I fell to the floor in utter despair and heartbreak, screaming at the top of my lungs that this was not really happening, I have no doubt that a part of me died with this news.

I do not remember much after that moment (and would not remember much of the next few months), except looking over at my daughter on the floor beside me and seeing her sweet smile.  I felt dead and was told she was going to die, but she was alive in that moment. She was hungry. She needed her diaper changed. She wanted to hear a bedtime story and hug mommy and daddy before going to sleep.  A voice told me that I had to stand up and take care of my daughter.


I let Katherine be my guide each day.  I would ask her what she wanted to do and we simply did it.


Each day became a little easier and my breakdowns came less frequently. Once again, I turned to my camera for comfort.  When I looked into the lens, I was living in that frame.  There is no tomorrow in that moment; just that second captured for all time.  I can blur out the background and focus on my daughter’s smile, the twinkle in her eyes, the space between her two front teeth, the dimple in her cheek or her little hands splashing in the water.  The world stops and I am at peace.

At the end of each day I download my photographs.  They show me a happy girl.  Despite my grief, I see that I am giving her the life she deserves.




I do not know what tomorrow brings.  None of us do.  I believe in science, prayers, hard work, positive thought, and the healing power of love.  Each day I share my photographs with friends and family and tell them a story that does not always require words, and that sometimes cannot be expressed with them. It is a story of faith, hope, love, and determination.  As we continue ahead on our journey toward a diagnosis, I see a brave and thriving girl who is progressing, not regressing.  I see a happy and joyful child who meets every obstacle or challenge with the biggest smile and the most positive attitude. I see a future with many more photographs of accomplishments, milestones, and laughter. In all of my pictures, I see faith, hope and love.  Above all, I see an abundance of love.


The past few months have been excruciatingly painful and tough, but I have learned a very valuable lesson: You never know what the next second of your life will bring.  My daughter guides me daily and reminds me that each moment is precious. Each day is a gift. She has taught me the significance of the quote, “We do not remember days, we remember moments.”  I have learned to enjoy and live in the present because it truly is the only moment that matters.

Part of me died in that Cincinnati room, but I find myself resurrected. I am a new person with a new perspective — and I have the sweetest little girl to guide me in my new life.

17 thoughts on “A Mother’s Death and Resurrection”

  1. After reading this, I haven’t cried this hard in months. Yet I still feel incredible joy for you, Dave and Katherine. And so much hope. She is your inspiration, and you ALL have become mine. I love you so very much, Glenda. My dear, sweet RHW.

  2. My dear, sweet friend, you are so very brave to share both your heartbreak and your love with the world. I know that someone is going to see this and find the strength to get through the day, the ability to live simply in each moment, or fall hopelessly in love with Katherine and with her courageous mother. You, David, and Katherine Belle are ever in my thoughts and prayers. If ever I can be of help or just a shoulder, I’m here for you.

  3. Glenda,

    This is heartbreaking and achingly beautiful. “I can blur out the background and focus on my daughter’s smile, the twinkle in her eyes, the space between her two front teeth, the dimple in her cheek or her little hands splashing in the water. The world stops and I am at peace.” Thank you for sharing Katherine Belle’s story and for continuing to do so through powerful words and images. I’m sorry to say that I have never met your daughter, but your posts make me feel like I know her. And love her. ~Jennifer

  4. Glenda, beautifully said and photographed. I love you and am proud to have you as my wife and incredibly thankful that you are my daughter’s mommy.


  5. Glenda,
    I truly do not even have the right words. I have followed all of you on this painful journey through Facebook and have grown to absolutely adore Katherine. This truly brought tears to my eyes tonight. As a mother, I am heartbroken and yet so hopeful everyday for you. I am so proud to know you and also to be in the “Mom Club” with you. I hope to one day be able to see your sweet girl in person and just give you a hug.

    With love and prayers,

  6. Glenda, thank you for sharing your very moving personal reflection of what surely must be the most agonizing experience that any parent will face. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. I also thank you for illuminating for those of us who read your passage the importance of fully appreciating the precious present.

  7. Glenda,
    Your pictures are glimpses of heaven: absolutely beautiful. You also have the gift of writing. Thanks so much for sharing. Reminding you that Jana, the boys and I are praying for each of you.

  8. What a beautiful and moving story. I remember when you were carrying Katherine and how excited and nervous you were. You are a truly beautiful and strong mother with a wonderful husband/father by your side. I follow all that is going on through FaceBook and realize just how strong you are. A mother’s love can conquer all. Please know you are never alone because there are so many of us who are praying with you, rejoicing with you and standing by you. Keep God first in your life and know that He will give you the strength to do all you need for Katherine.

  9. Dear Glenda, Dave and Katherine, You didn’t ask for this role, and I know you don’t want it, but thank you for teaching us the power of the present and reminding us to keep perspective. Life is just.too.short. Celebrate the good, eliminate the clutter, don’t let negative things or people get in the way. You inspire me, and I believe others, to be brave in facing daily and momentary challenges, and to not take a moment in this precious life for granted.

    I hope you will continue this blog, which I hope is cathartic for you. It is very much appreciated by us! I especially liked the story (it feels like a parable) about Donnie and your encounter at the zoo. God works in mysterious ways! Thankfully, Donnie was attuned to what was going on around him, and you were open to talking to this stranger.

    Let us all write hard, live hard and love hard. Thank you again for sharing your painful but precious story. Our family sends our love and prayers to you and yours, and want you to know we’re here for you as you have been for us and others.

  10. January 30,
    I have shared your story with friends and family. It has made me aware of so many unspoken moments in my life, moments that have just been felt, but not articulated. Words can be powerful, devastating, healing, hopeful, and yet so often we opt for silence, assuming that everyone understands. Glenda and David, thanks for helping me understand, feel, and hope for all three of you.

  11. Glendeenie, This is incredible.It is written with such candor and vulnerability that it reaches to the core.Your outlook and perspective continue to be an inspiration as does KB’s smile and unabashed joy. All of which you are able to capture and share through your words and your lens. Amazing…. Love you all like crazy. xxx

  12. Glenda,
    Your words are so deeply touching, and so sobering. I am thankful to know you and to be witness to your photographic talent. I enjoy your insight, strength, and willpower. Your testament of hope is one that sheds light on the darkest of days; I am blessed to reads your words. My love goes out to you and David. I am so happy to see every photo of your darling Katherine. Thank you.

  13. Glenda,
    Your words are so deeply touching, and so sobering. I am thankful to know you and to be witness to your photographic talent. I enjoy your insight, strength, and willpower. Your testament of hope is one that sheds light on the darkest of days; I am blessed to read your words. My love goes out to you and David. I am so happy to see every photo of your darling Katherine. Thank you.

  14. AS I read this over and over It truly does tell me how awesome of parents you both are to sweet KB,and just how lucky she is to have such intelligent parents to share her story to others and in hope that it will help someone else that might be going through he very same thing.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s