We walked into the sparsely decorated hospital room and the tired woman reached out one hand to each of us. Dark circles creased the skin under her eyes. Mom walked to one side and I walked to the other and we each took a hand.

“Oh, girls. I’m so glad you came.”

She turned her head to look at Mom, tears in her eyes. “It’s spread. It’s all over this time. There’s nothing they can do.”

Mom fought back tears but lost the battle and I felt them come fast to my eyes too.

“Don’t cry, girls.” She squeezed our hands. “I’ve been so lucky. I know we thought it was a bad thing when Joy had her babies so young but look at all this time I’ve had with my babies.”

More tears from us and more calm from the woman who had just been given a terminal cancer diagnosis after being in remission from breast cancer a decade before.

I don’t remember how many years she continued to fight but it was longer than doctors expected. We visited her as much as we could with her living an hour away. A hospital bed in the living room became her permanent place to sit and visit.

One of the last times I saw her I was pregnant.

“Boy or girl?” She asked in her matter-of-fact way. “What are we having?”

“She thinks a girl,” Mom answered for me. “But I think that’s because she has so many nieces.”

Donna laughed that loud, boisterous, full-of-life laugh, unique laugh of hers. “No. It’s a boy. We have enough girls. I love them but we need a boy.” She had four granddaughters at the time.

On the day of my baby shower, Mom received a call. It was from Donna.

“I so much want to be there but I don’t think I’ll make it. I’m not feeling well today.”

They spoke briefly and Mom said she, of course, understood.

Later that night Donna’s son called to tell Mom that Donna had just passed away. She thought of me on the day she died. I couldn’t figure out why. I wasn’t anyone special – she had others in her life she was closer to. I am certain she’d wanted to be there for me but especially for Mom.

Over the months, I began to wonder if the baby growing in my womb really was a girl. We had only picked out two names for children  – Grace and Jonathan.

Our baby was born a few months after Donna died. The labor was long — 23 and a half hours. The kid was comfortable in there and was already two weeks late.

When the baby finally arrived at 5:58 a.m., the midwife held the small figure up to me butt first and said, “What’s that?”

I was delirious with exhaustion and said “Her umbilical cord?”

“No!” The midwife cried. “That’s not an umbilical cord!”

“Oh!” Tears filled my eyes. “Is that my Jonathan?”

“Yes! It’s a boy!”

They cleaned him off and laid him on my stomach and in his eyes I saw wisdom beyond what I can explain – not because my child was brilliant already but because he seemed to still have the remnants of heaven in his gaze. I’ll never forget how alert he looked. Maybe Donna had told him about me.

Mom was on the other side of the room, exhausted herself. “What did Donna say?” She asked, her voice breaking.

I was still exhausted and emotional now and I started to cry. “She said we’d have a boy.”

I was angry at God for taking Donna from her family. I harbored bitterness at him for years over it.

“You’re not a fair God,” I told him. “I can’t trust you. Look what you did to Donna.”

One day I told Mom this and she said something like, “No, no. Don’t ever be angry at him for taking Donna home. She wanted to go. She wanted to see him. She was ready for heaven and God knew that.”

My anger has shifted to confusion now and I just want to know why she had to suffer and leave them all behind. I’m looking forward to God’s answer one day.

I wish you could see him now, Donna. You’d be so proud of him. He’s smart and funny and takes care of your best friend like she’s the queen. He helps Dad several times a week and he’s taking a building and construction class. He’s sweet and caring and earlier this year he saved a woman’s life.

You really would be proud of this boy.

Our boy.