APRIL 5, 1965 8:00 A.M.
I lay motionless on the bed. I fluctuated between grief and anger. Though the team in the blue cars was compassionate, they had treated me like a helpless woman. Especially the doctor. Yes, I was almost eight months pregnant, but that was not an ailment or an illness. As I began to speak, the doctor who was sitting beside me thrust a pill into my mouth, and I automatically swallowed in surprise.
“What did you just do?” I asked incredulously.
“I just gave you a sedative,” he replied, as if popping a pill into someone’s unsuspecting mouth was the most natural thing in the world.
“I didn’t need a sedative,” I said, forcing my voice to stay in a calm octave.
“Well, I thought . . .”
“I did not ask for a sedative. As you can see, I am very much in control of my emotions,” I insisted.
“Most people in your situation are very upset,” he said defensively.
“I am upset. I am upset with you. I am almost eight months pregnant. I don’t need to be taking unnecessary medication.” With that, I ended the conversation, thanked the men for their support, and told them I would be in touch with them about what I decided the next best steps for me and my girls would be.
I watched from the window as the blue cars drove away. I was relieved to see them go. I had to think, and now I was afraid my thoughts would be muddled—not only with grief but also with medication. I tried to close my eyes to rest for just a bit, but I couldn’t. The pill did not faze me, so great were the thoughts rolling in my mind. Think, Louise, I instructed myself silently. Immediately, a new strategy came to my mind. Pray, Louise. This gentle reminder seemed like a whisper to my spirit, and with it came a renewed resolve.
I got up from the bed and walked quietly to the bathroom—a huge room with white tile on floors and walls. At that moment, it almost seemed heavenly. And that is where I directed my attention. Heavenward.
I began to pray, as I had earlier, with a simple cry of “Oh, Lord.” Silent tears streamed down my face, and suddenly more words came to my heart. Though not Catholic, I had gone to St. Genevieve of the Pines boarding school in North Carolina for ten years. The words learned from the nuns each day in chapel flowed from my lips: “Dear blessed Virgin Mary, never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, sought thy intercession, was left unaided. Inspired by this confidence, I come to thee, virgin of virgins, Mother of God.” Then the conversation between me and my Lord continued as friend to friend.
“Blessed Jesus, may you enfold Smitty in your loving arms. Guide him and guard him, protect him, and bring him safely home. Bless my children and this baby. Help us make it through this day and the days to come. I place my total trust in you, Jesus. I rest all my confidence in you and in our heavenly Father.” The words flowed freely now, as my tears also flowed freely down my cheeks. An unexplainable peace and strength filled me as I ended my prayer in the same way the Lord Jesus ended his in the garden: “yet not my will, but yours be done.”
I stood up and wiped my tears. There was much to do, and I had to make myself ready. As I left the bathroom, my resolve was set. I knew deep in my heart that my husband was alive, though I shuddered to think of what he might be enduring.
If Smitty can do what he is doing right now, I can do this. I have to be strong for our girls, I thought as I walked through the house, ready to face the future.