The towering pine that stands watch over Jeffrey’s resting spot

The revelation that my husband, Randy, and I were becoming newborn parents again called for a comprehensive to-do list. Our other children, Matthew and Katie, were in elementary school. With no intention of needing baby items again, we’d kept nothing. Katie, then 7, ecstatically helped me rectify that dilemma, and soon we were ready!

Jeffrey arrived on May 18, 1997. We sailed along, going with the flow impressively.

About 18 months earlier, Randy and I had hiked up the little mountain on our property, and we’d discovered an old cemetery where stones — some etched, others not — served as markers. A modern marker identified a baby named Clara. My heart ached as I pondered the nightmare of losing a child. Randy and I had no inkling we’d soon be relating to that nightmare ourselves.

That “flow” we were going with so impressively after Jeffrey’s birth came to a screeching halt weeks later.

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A road up the mountain

Jeffrey’s SMA diagnosis left our family reeling. Nowhere on the to-do list or in our wildest imaginations was “prepare a road to the top of the mountain so we can bury our baby.”

The diagnosis made my head spin. I scoured the internet for information about SMA, searching frantically for possible alternate treatments that might thwart its deadly progression.

My heart spun as well. Besides being a mama (and eventually Jeffrey’s nurse), I connected with other SMA families, found a lifelong lifeline in a fellow SMA mom, and prayed fervently.

Meanwhile, Randy assumed primary responsibility for everything else. That was a breeze compared with finding someone to prepare a road up the mountain. And that was a breeze compared with explaining why we needed it ASAP.

Jeffrey’s spot on top of our little mountain, which we’ve dubbed “Angel Mountain.” It has garden angels, a white picket fence, and daffodils and is perfect for reflection and regrouping. (Photo by Helen Baldwin)

A towering pine tree stood watch over the site chosen for Jeffrey’s resting spot. The proximity to baby Clara’s spot seemed fitting and comforting. After the service, family and friends hiked up the new mountain road. Randy and I didn’t watch as the tiny white casket was lowered into the ground. Instead, we focused on the stunning views, imagining heaven.

Thanks to our generous and thoughtful family and my eagerness to spiffy up Jeffrey’s spot, we set up a couple of benches, planted lots of tulip and daffodil bulbs and some trees, and added stone garden angels. I eventually added white picket fencing. 

Alas, deer gobbled up all the tulips. The daffodils popped up wherever they wanted, mostly outside the fence. The trees shot up, gradually obstructing the view. Each year, the pine tree drops endless needles on Jeffrey’s site and drips copious amounts of sap on the benches. It can be a mess! Still, I thrive in the serenity of the sanctuary vibes.

Cliché or not, it’s truly a slice of heaven.

Storm damage and daffodils

I walked up the mountain as soon as I could after Hurricane Helene hit the area last September, leaving a trail of devastation and death. I wanted to check the damage — which to my surprise and relief was relatively minimal. But since then, the weather has kept me grounded. Two weeks ago, though, temperatures were unusually mild, so I grabbed a rake and headed up. I expected the trail to be a wreck: In addition to Helene, we’ve endured intense rain, wind, snow, and an ice storm that hit our area particularly hard. Sure enough, I had to remove tree limbs almost the entire way up.

The park bench didn’t fare too well during Hurricane Helene and subsequent storms, but Jeffrey’s site was mostly spared. (Photo by Helen Baldwin)

I wasn’t daunted by the amount of debris or the trees and limbs I couldn’t budge, as I managed to maneuver around them. When I reached the top, however, my eyes welled up when I spied the massive pine tree at Jeffrey’s site.

The tree was still standing — mostly anyway. But gigantic limbs had snapped off, and other monstrous pine branches were strewn all around. As I approached Jeffrey’s spot, the tears fell in earnest. The branches had buried the park bench. However, miraculously, save for a couple of manageable branches on top of and just inside the fence, Jeffrey’s spot was virtually unharmed.

My first cleanup tasks — with my new chainsaw — will be to free the benches, unearth all the markers, and figure out what to do next. I’ll replace and expand the fencing. I’ll plant more of something. I’ve already requested another park bench.

As to the fate of The Great Pine, I’m torn. The thought of it possibly crashing down on Jeffrey’s site at some point is unbearable. It’s now excessively sappy, and I’m wondering if it’s secretly (or not-so-secretly) begging for retirement from standing guard. At the same time, when we chose Jeffrey’s spot, it symbolized a sense of protection for him. It’s also provided great shade for the bench during my countless conversations with God.

For now, I’ll follow the examples of the beloved, dependable daffodils that pop up like clockwork. Seemingly oblivious to any disruption that might surround them, they always seem enthusiastically willing and able to do their job.

That sounds like something worthy for any to-do list.

Note: SMA News Today is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of SMA News Today or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to spinal muscular atrophy.