The Glimpse Gift

By Mary Van Milligen

The Glimpse Gift is a witty, romantic, and emotional tale of a young woman with a slight gift of foresight, an unusual connection to the past, and a mission to help those that cannot help themselves.

The clever and guarded Hope Dempsey has lived most of her life with the power to see two minutes into the future during emotionally poignant moments, but as she matured, so did her strength in seeing the unbelievable. On New Year’s Eve, at the age of 26, she meets the first of a succession of saints sent to her to mend a present-day issue reflective of that particular saint’s own journey. With the help of friends in heaven and a handsome local antique dealer, Nathan, Hope humorously and trustfully dives into her divine mission.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483461366

Book preview

34

CHAPTER 1

M y heart voraciously pumps; I have one second to get it right. Without another thought, I move my hand. The light’s intensity pierces everything. I can’t take my eyes off him. It can’t be real. I don’t want to have to live without him…but I don’t have a choice. Death decides, and its permanence and grief always takes residence in us. Is this what I was born to see?

Every child is a miracle, and every person has a story filled with rare circumstances; moments of conflict filled with minds that choose to run and fall into chaos, minds that seek some tiny sliver of quiet in the noise, and minds that guide their guts to bleed. All of these events finally lead to a fateful closure. As a small character in the universe, my plot has always dipped its toe into all sorts of unusual moments that fall into all of the above. Mere weeks after my conception, I began my first unusual story twist.

My mother told me her pregnancy with me was the hardest challenge of her life. Unfortunately, she had several specialists tell her I wasn’t meant to be. At nineteen weeks gestation, the first specialist told her I was a girl, that I was measuring a little small, that her amniotic fluid was low, and he suspected I could potentially have a mental disorder called Dandy Walker. Sadly for her, the scan wasn’t strong enough to notice my superhero-like, invincible strong will, and the spot-on Mona Lisa smile I’d been working on in her uterus for weeks.

He continued to add more harsh ingredients to his perinatologist mixing bowl when he tossed in a teaspoon of potential markers for Down syndrome and a dash of likelihood for Trisomy 13, which hosts a high percentage of not being compatible with life. My mother became terrified with this extra, extra, read all about it front-page news. She felt the weight of anxiety limit her movement and vigorously and voraciously step to the plate and take a bat to her mind. The slow-motion time that followed froze her.

As the days went by, she struggled the most in the morning hours, and every evening she felt calm because she had conquered one more day. But when the lines of light peeked through her bedroom blinds at sunrise, my mother had to face the uncertain reality she may miscarry at any time, that she may never get to hold me in her arms, that she may lose the chance to have another child. And as we all clearly know now, she would have never known the value and level of hilarity I would bring to her family. I was rockin’ knock-knock jokes by the time I was three, and I had prodigy levels of sarcasm by seven.

Two weeks after the first brutal appointment, my mother and father would go and see another maternal-fetal specialist. This visit was like witnessing the lighting of a match for dynamite, and this forthright, lack of bedside manner doctor’s menu consisted of nothing but morbidity. He said, sharply and insincerely as he spent more time looking at his watch and not looking at my mother, that this type of pregnancy is serendipitous to nature and the baby won’t survive. And this line, this line is my favorite: Don’t worry, this will all be over in a couple of weeks. Spoken like a true imbecile that didn’t possess a uterus or a humanistic approach. He swiftly headed out of the examining room before briefly assuring my mother that she could have healthy pregnancies in the future. But this one, he said, this one looks like a textbook case. I always wished my Mom would have taken me back to the hospital when I was a toddler, have me hobble up to him as I held my little Care Bear, say hello sweetly, and then proceed to flip him off for his incorrect diagnosis.

After my mother and father left that examination room, she began to wait for my approaching death. This painstaking time of life for my mother became a get-out-of-jail-free card for me. Any time I would frustrate her, like when I accidentally backed the one family car into the other one, or when I lied and told my mom I wasn’t going into the city and decided to go anyway, I would simply remind her and yell Don’t forget. I almost died.

After leaving the Dr. Gloom and Doom room all those years ago, my mother remembered all the women sitting behind the large reception area. Some stared at her, and some whispered softly to others. They all had small, forced grins and some even had tears in their eyes. Doctor-patient confidentiality doesn’t happen when the mother-to-be looks like she can’t go on. The cape of empathy in that office should have made my mother feel consolation, but the reaction made my mother feel even more destroyed by her grief. Once the doctor’s office door closed and my parents headed towards the elevator to leave the building, my mother forced words through the lump in her throat and uttered to my father.

This is horrible.

I know, he said softly.

Why? she began to quietly let it out, nestling her head into his chest, and cried, Why?

My father placed his arm around her waist and let her nudge her head in between his neck and shoulder. He then began to cry and emphatically told my mother You just need to talk to her every day she is inside of you. Every day she is here. You make sure she knows we love her, and we want to meet her and know her so badly. He wanted to say more, but then another unusual moment occurred.

The elevator door dinged, and they got inside and pressed the G for ground level. Right before the door was about to close, a young, Hispanic man dressed in white overalls stained with fresh, taupe paint appeared. He wore an old, ratty baseball hat and was working in the east wing for renovations. He entered the elevator and beamed at my parents, completely unresponsive to the noticeably dreadful faces they both possessed, and pressed the two for the second floor. Then, ignoring all cultural norms regarding customary elevator behavior, he turned completely around and looked at my parents. With a positively boisterous and energetic voice, the man said, Look at you two holding hands. He then added, Ya know, there really isn’t anything more powerful in this world than a strong love between two people. It’s a beautiful thing. And not everyone in this world gets to feel it. Abruptly after this man interrupted my parent’s program with this important message, the elevator stopped at the second floor and then he tilted his cap towards my mother and father and said, Love. It is the answer. It is the hope for all that matters. Esperar. And just like that, the didactic stranger disappeared. Years later, my mother would think of this man and realize his brief encounter was more than likely not a coincidence, especially when she found out that esperar meant to wait, to hope. All of the prayers did something. They did more than most would expect.

CHAPTER 2

O nce more people discovered the dreadful pregnancy news, some friends shockingly asked why the doctors didn’t do more for her or why she didn’t just terminate the pregnancy. For brief moments, she contemplated this idea, but it went against everything she knew and believed, and ultimately, she decided to truly give the pregnancy over to God. She invited a local priest into her home, and he gave her simple advice.

It was a hot, breezy June day; the priest’s name was Father Dan. He possessed a slender frame, black-rimmed glasses, a receding line of brown hair, a strong face with hazel eyes that projected kindness, and an aura that reminded my mom of Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey from one of her favorite films, It’s a Wonderful Life. He entered our brick, Georgian-style home with nothing but his black suit, white collar, and a light-blue rosary.

Hello, he gently murmured.

Hello, my mother reciprocated.

My father interrupted. Please, why don’t we take a seat in the living room where it is more comfortable. Would you like anything to drink?

No. I’m fine. Thank you, he replied.

As the small group walked towards the living room, my older sister followed gleefully. Father Dan turned around and energetically asked, Well, who is this?

This is Allie, replied Mom.

Well, look at you with your pretty, curly hair, he said affectionately, and then he took a seat in the green pin-striped chair in the corner of the living room.

Allie chuckled, waved at Father Dan, and ran away as soon as she heard the movie Cinderella blaring from the family room. We both enjoyed this Disney classic as kids and often wondered why Cinderella didn’t take the time to make Gus and Jack a pair of pants.

My mother sat reserved, tired, and hopeless. She wanted the priest to give her guidance, and she also wanted him to keep her in his prayers because her mental stability at this point fluctuated. A GPS couldn’t even find my mother’s lost laugh. Right after my father finished explaining the news from the multiple doctors, Father Dan simply said, Doctors are convoluted. He looked directly at my mother and said, The creation of life can never truly be documented in a medical manner. As much as doctors progress in the study of fertility, they will never have all the answers. He pointed to her growing belly and said, They don’t really know what’s going on in there any more than they know what’s going on up there. He pointed towards the assumed heaven above the sky.

But… my mother interrupted.

He didn’t allow her a chance to continue. He quickly spoke over her and said, As a priest, I have seen it all. I have witnessed medical error. I have witnessed the human spirit work with the Holy Spirit. We are not praying today for the two of you to cope with this awful, impending death news. We are simply praying for life.

And just like that, my mother’s body felt a surge of warmth from head to toe. She allowed positivity to lead the anguish tango for one second, but then logic overwhelmed her again.

She put the priest on the witness stand and berated him with questions. With all due respect, Father Dan, how do you know? How do you deny what medical experts are telling me? How do you dismiss it all with such certainty? Not one, but two…two different specialists, including my own OBGYN, aren’t showing any ounce of possibility.

He insisted, How do you so agreeably accept they are right? and stoically stared at her.

I ignored the first doctor, but when the second doctor agreed and saw more problems, how could I not?

Is she alive?

What?

Is she alive right now?

Yes.

How do you know?

I feel her. She moves.

What else do you feel?

What?

Do you really feel she’s going to die?

I don’t know.

Say the answer you feel. Right now. Do you feel like you’re going to lose her?

My mother didn’t respond.

I see. He sighed.

He continued to stare at her. And then he interjected, what path do you want to focus on? I think this path you’ve been living on has several twists and turns. You can’t follow these directions. This particular route isn’t good for you or your baby. Invite Him in.

And then there was even longer silence. My mother avoided him and stared out the window. He cleared his throat to snap her attention towards him. Once she made eye contact, he rubbed his brow, took off his glasses, and grinned.

How do I know with such certainty you ask? I know because God is the one omniscient truth I’ve discovered in this world, so let’s rely on Him to provide our answers. God hears us. God wants us to want Him. Faith, quite simply, is a profession. We work at it, get insurance from it, question it, and develop skills with it. You have been handed many tasks throughout this profession, and now that you’ve been handed one of the largest projects in your life, you want to run away from the job? You were hired as a child. This almighty power has never handed anyone a pink slip. He or she, through his or her own volition, quits.

I’m not a quitter. I don’t think I’m built for this, she retorted.

You’ve allowed anxiety to paralyze you. He then spoke softly and questioned, Why is it so hard for us to give our burdens to Him? He begs for them. He bleeds for them.

Guilt burdened my mother. She didn’t want to question her faith, but she was scared. Humility sneaked into her and she said, I’m listening.

He smirked. He read the expression on my mother’s face and saw that she wasn’t truly buying his comments, and when he felt her discomfort, he said, Nope. No, I’m not sure you are or that you want to. I am lucky that in my profession I get to constantly witness amazing sights. I am present. I literally get to work for Him and through Him. And every single day when I see my parishioners or people just like you struggle with their walk with God, I get frustrated. It’s right in front of us every day. We see what we want to see, and I implore you to just let yourself see. You say that you think you are not completely built for this. I say you are wrong. Clearly, you have been built for this. Every event in your life—every decision, challenge, triumph, every disaster has been designed to bring you to and through this moment. Trust in God’s sovereignty...and trust in His judgment. Our Heavenly Father would not have given you this child if he didn’t know you. He then referenced Proverbs 3:5-6 Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.

She nodded.

He then continued. Accept this job. Clock in. Let yourself look. If you open this door, He will invite you in, but you have to step in off the welcome mat.

He said a few prayers with my parents, called for Allie to come back to the room and leaned down to Allie’s level and kindly requested, You keep giving your Mommy and Daddy lots of kisses. He gave the sign of the cross when he got to the front door and then he was gone. The visit was brief. The priest overwhelmed my parents with his confident composure that everything was going to be fine. And my parents finally started to feel a small sense of peace and optimism. They chose to RSVP to His invitation for a party of four. Mom, Dad, Allie, and me.

Two days after the fatherly chat, my mother finally confided her never-ending concerns with her own sister, and her sister told her about a saint named Saint Gianna. Saint Gianna became incredibly ill while she was pregnant, and she ultimately gave her life for the life of her child. Born in 1922 and died in 1962, Saint Gianna left a significant impression on hundreds of thousands of people. Gianna was diagnosed with cancer during her fourth pregnancy and refused treatment in order to ensure the health of her baby. Gianna constantly gave to others and truly believed in the importance and the value of all human life. When researching the story of Saint Gianna’s life, there were two phrases in particular on the website that Mom clung to with desperation and hope: Each and every day presents us with choices that have the power to prepare us to take heroic action whenever it will be called for. We can do that, however, only if we surrender ourselves and what we desire to God and His will for us. And the other, One cannot love without suffering or suffer without loving. These beautiful words became my mother’s motto. Invite love in; it’s worth the loss.

My mother also read several documented cases of people that felt Saint Gianna interceded with them in their wants and needs of the Lord.

One particular evening, my mother believes she became one of the documented stories. And although I love to make fun of my mother every other day for my own amusement, I’ll never mock her for this. I think it created a rare treasure for me. One that has owned me and directed me.

As she slept, she had the ever-so-cliché moment of being stirred awake, and she felt some kind of presence was watching her from above her bed. Then, an effervescent surge of warmth tingled over her entire stomach. It tickled and saturated her abdomen for about two minutes. She was between consciousness and unconsciousness for some of the time, but she does recall reaching her hand out ever-so-gently into the dark room towards the ceiling and softly uttering the words, Saint Gianna.

A few days after this strange yet serene evening, my mother returned to her regular obstetrician. The purpose of this appointment was simple: the doctor wanted to see if my heart was still beating. In other words, if I was dead…a goner…that my ship had sailed. And when she looked at the screen of black-and-white, distorted images, she quickly saw the lemon-sized image pulsating and observed that the amniotic fluid had increased and that I continued to grow. I was still alive. Go me.

A few more weeks went by, and my mother had to visit another specialist. She became increasingly anxious as the day of the appointment approached. Her heart was frozen by fear, and her legs, as she entered the doctor’s office door, became weak and numb. The recent hope that had carried her these last few weeks seemed to depart as she approached the examination table. She wanted to believe God had healed me, but she was also fiercely defending herself against the painful possibility of never knowing me.

She remembers almost every detail with such clarity. I’ve heard the story so often that I feel like I was there; well, I was technically there, but I mean really there. The sterile room into which she entered had every gestational chart and image plastered on all sides, although it was difficult to clearly see each due to the darkness of the room for the ultrasound machines. She barely breathed and prayed to herself as the doctor, a fifty-something woman known as Dr. Fitz, walked into the room. She had L’Oreal commercial colored-red hair; dark-rimmed, chic glasses that rested towards the end of her nose; and her voice sounded like she had spent her evening screaming at the latest rock concert. Her approach and attitude was that of a straight-shooter, a character trait my mother always adored. Dr. Fitz did the obligatory exchange of How are you doing today? and How’s the weather outside? questions, and then this sassy woman assertively grabbed the ultrasound wand, squirted cold jelly upon my mother’s abdomen and began to examine my latest close-up moment. Then, my mother’s world halted. She exhaled. She heard Dr. Fitz deliver the news.

Well, Dr. Fitz began to explain. The brain is developing fine, and I do not see signs for Trisomy 13. Other than being small, this baby looks great. She did not see signs for my mother to give up on me and my life. At this point, the doctor only saw that I was small for my gestational age—that I was IUGR, which stands for Intra-Uterine Growth Restriction. She advised us to come back to do another growth scan, and my parents were prepared to follow orders. But my mother never went back for that appointment. About two weeks later, my mother was hospitalized due to hypertension. My mother’s anxiety and stress toyed with her blood pressure.

The pregnancy continued, but this new diagnosis put my mother and me at risk.

After weeks of bed rest in the hospital and at home, my parents met me at thirty-three weeks gestation, and I was born via emergency C-section. Most babies born around this stage weigh about four pounds; I entered the world at a whopping two pounds and five ounces and a staggering fourteen inches. My parents named me Hope Gianna. And when my mother shares my story, she effusively smiles and jokes, Most of her weight was in her head. I always hate when she says that. From this point, I stayed in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for six and a half weeks, and then I came home.

CHAPTER 3

F or the next two years, my parents watched my every move and motion like an NFL analyst closely dissecting a play, tracing my moves, and they were time and time again reassured by my performances and skills. I was quickly observant of small details, and slowly, my physical strength and development