Driving Toward the Rainbow

The brilliant arch spanned the two-laned country road. The length of the colored streamers completed the semi-circle as though I could actually see both ends hit the Earth. The colors were brighter than I had ever laid eyes on before: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. All were distinct. All were visible. All had their own piece of glory. All combined to create a banner of joy across the sky. As the jet-black pavement quickly slid under my tires, we approached the heavenly gateway. Leaving the daycare behind us, Evelyn and I basked in the blissful moment. Her grunts quieted as she ceased trying to break out of her seatbelt. A newfound calm matched the gentle smile that crossed my face. She quieted her straining cries, as if she knew the skies watched from above. Our trajectory took us 50-miles-an-hour closer to the beaming hues. The torrential rain that drenched my gray knee-length shorts just five minutes earlier as I ran with Evelyn from the daycare’s doorway to my car made way for this beautiful beacon.


Six years ago, I had just found out I was pregnant with Sophia. Little did I know we would only have a few short months with her; most of her life would be hidden away from us inside my belly. That storm hit us hard. It struck fast with little warning. The emotionally soaking rain that poured into our lives flooded our logical minds with illogical events. Disoriented as we ran through the rain drops, our desperate attempt to avoid each lightening strike proved impossible. Hitting us with its sharp edges, each bolt zapped our lives into a state of frazzled sadness. Even once the wind blew the storm on its way, the aftermath of Sophia’s birth and death left damage that extended far beyond our cognizance.

Gasping for breath between waves of dark clouds, the five years that followed brought little break from each storm. Each time we dried out, the ominous clouds broke open. Never letting us get too warm, too cozy, or too comfortable, sloshing around in cold, wet, heavy clothes brought us to a new miserable normal.

When I became pregnant with Evelyn, the clouds never fully disappeared. They clung together, the sinister molecules holding their shape waiting to pour over us once again. Fighting back, we kept the drops at bay. At each doctor’s appointment that brought potentially scary prognoses, we draped ourselves in our raincoats, stomped around in our galoshes expending every effort in protecting ourselves from a complete drenching. When Evelyn was born, the winds of life blew the clouds away. Never broken apart, they surround us somewhere in the sky. Yet the patch over us is clear and blue. 26915563432_3ac640662b_m

That recent late afternoon, as we watched daycare disappear in the rearview mirror, the rain hovered behind us and the rainbow prevailed. Our babies won. Our past won. Our story won. Sophia finally has a reason to smile down on our little family.


photo credit: taymtaym <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/89769912@N05/25177874426″>OKIMG_5086</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

photo credit: Éole <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/73491156@N00/26915563432″>Zeus is watchin You</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

Published by lkgaddis

I have been working on this memoir-style project for a while now, and I'm excited to share it with others. My hope is to get as wide an audience as possible, and to receive comments, suggestions, and ideas to improve and expand what I have. I also want to encourage others to become curious about the topic of babies, and the loss that can come with the adventures of trying to start a family. In the world of celebrating healthy babies, we who know otherwise need a voice too.

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 )

Twitter picture

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

Facebook photo

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

Connecting to %s