Missing our little guy

A tribute to our youngest, Luke Anthony. It's comforting to know we'll see him again someday.



It’s been 33 years ago today, and I wonder how many of those who came to know him, even a little, remember this date.

He was born July 28, 1977 at Kewanee Public Hospital. Luke Anthony weighed 3.5 pounds, and following a collapsed lung, our youngest was whisked away to the neonatal unit at Peoria’s Saint Francis Hospital. I was allowed a quick look at him through his portable incubator before he was off on his journey. It would be 10 days before I saw our son again.

I don’t believe anyone in our family or circle of friends thought for one minute that Luke would never come home to Kewanee again.

Once the shock, denial and anger at our situation subsided, our little family made the best of a bad situation. Luke had two older brothers and both were under 5, so they weren’t allowed at the hospital. Hubby had to keep working, and as a mom I simply had to be at our son’s cribside as much as possible.

We learned more than we ever wanted to about premature birth, the health consequences, quality of life and much more. Luke was on oxygen, he had shunts put in to drain water off his brain, he had a hernia, and his blood was taken for testing so often the doctors and nurses ran out of places to draw from.

You would think that the world we were living in at that time was a scary and dark place, and in many ways it was. We prayed our hearts out that Luke would come home to live with us, but every setback (and there were many) seemed to say it wasn’t to be.

But the world wasn’t all gloom and doom. Members of the First United Methodist Church quietly stepped in with offers of free babysitting for the boys, money for travel, a new outfit for me—just to lift my spirits, food and prayers. Pastor Phil from Peoria and Pastor Bob from Kewanee visited our home and the hospital regularly.

Now and then I would bring someone along to visit Luke so they could learn how to prepare to enter his special room. No jewelry, lots of hand scrubbing, masks and gowns—that was the routine. There was a brief time when we were taught how to care for our son when he came home, and we were prepared to take on that job, no matter what it took.

The call came in the wee hours of a cold January morning. Everything that could be done for Luke had been done. We were told we had to make a decision, so we prayed and then asked hubby’s brother and wife to be with us and our two pastors on that unforgettable day.

I held our son, Daddy’s arm around us both as Luke passed away. His Uncle Mark and Aunt Debbie drove us home that day, and they, along with other family and friends helped us get through what comes after the loss of a child.

I have a few favorite memories of that time, and I kept daily journals that are tucked away in the attic. The few photos we were allowed to take have darkened over time, but I remember that sweet face. I hope I always will.

If you know someone who has lost a child, whether through illness or some other way, please know that moms and dads most always welcome the chance to talk about their son or daughter. We just need someone to remember, and to listen.