When I bumped into Mark in May 2017, love was the furthest thing from my mind. I was a newly divorced mom of five, newly emerged from a sorrowful seven-year marriage, and barely finding my balance again. My sister would tease that it was a setup made perfect my brother-in-law, who was with Mark in the National Guard, had given him my number “for fun.” In some way, that casual beginning became one of the best blessings of my life.
Two years passed, and in September of 2019, we were having our second little girl. We already had a gorgeous daughter, Cassyn, and this new baby, which we’d decided to name Corbyn was like another blessing. All my pregnancies had been straightforward, so I went into my anatomy scan that November anticipating good news. Mark couldn’t be there that day due to work, but I wasn’t anxious. Everything had always been easy before.
My mother accompanied me and was instrumental in keeping my toddler occupied while the ultrasound started. The technician talked normally, affirming that we, in fact, were expecting another girl. But when she kept scanning and noticed her becoming quiet and concentrated, particularly when she paused over Corbyn’s head, I sensed something was wrong. Then she exited the room to consult with the doctor, taking the printed photographs with her. My heart sank. I looked at my mom and said, “Something’s wrong with the baby.”
Two doctors entered a few minutes later. One sat down and explained softly, “We’re about to have a very difficult conversation about your baby.” I asked her if it was anencephaly, something I’d seen in my frantic late-night Google searches. She nodded. My world ground to a halt.
Anencephaly is an uncommon neural tube defect that occurs early in pregnancy, when the brain and skull don’t develop fully. The physician said Corbyn probably wouldn’t live long after birth, if at all. She told me that I could abort the pregnancy or have her to term. Ending the pregnancy was never something I was going to consider. I wanted to provide Corbyn with every second she was supposed to get, no matter how brief.
We learned about organ donation, and while her organs were not transplantable, her heart valves and tissue could be donated for research, a small but powerful way for her life to benefit others. That became our mission. We wished her short time here to count.
In the subsequent months, I attended support groups and encountered other mothers on the same sorrowful journey. We had maternity pictures, made mementos, and savored each kick and twitch. When the pandemic struck in early 2020, we consulted with palliative care to map out her birth, how we wished to spend the time with her, and what love can be when goodbye arrives too early.
On April 15, 2020, at 39 weeks, we made our way to the hospital. Labor was long and difficult, but we hung in there together. Almost at midnight, Corbyn Elizabeth Reign was born. She weighed six pounds, two ounces just enough to be a donor for the heart valve. She made a few gentle breaths before she drifted away quietly in my arms.
We embraced her, clothed her, snapped pictures, and spoke softly of our love. Even in death, she provided another family additional time with their child. That idea gave me solace amidst the sorrow.
The months following her death were the darkest moments of my life. Grief seemed endless, drowning in waves I couldn’t see a way out of. But Mark and I held on to each other and slowly relearned how to smile again. We remembered Corbyn through donations, memory boxes, and saying her name.
A year after that, we discovered I was pregnant once more. Dread was intertwined with hope as the doctors watched closely. At 24 weeks, we finally heard what we had prayed for our new little girl, Colby, was absolutely healthy. Sorrow and happiness occupied my heart simultaneously. I deeply missed Corbyn, but her little sister told me that love never ends.
Corbyn’s life was short, but her legacy lives on. She showed us that even the smallest heartbeat can change the world and that love, no matter how brief, is always worth it.
