By Lisa M. Belisle
Originally published April 3, 1996, Portland Press Herald

I first heard of Dunblane on the way to pick up my son from preschool. The morning was warm, and the air burgeoning with promises of new life.

Suddenly, words on the radio shattered my reverie: “gunman... primary grades... 13 known dead... Scottish schoolchildren.” This dissonant juxtaposition of phrases caused a stirring of emotions from within.

Disbelief, outrage, fear and sorrow filled my being, but chief among these was sorrow. Sorrow for a class of 5- and 6-year olds who would not be trooping home to hug expectant parents; sorrow for the parents of a little Scottish girl named Abigail whose smiling countenance would never more brighten their mornings.

However deep my sorrow for them, the parents of Abigail and the other dead children feel a sorrow infinitely deeper. There is only one way to avoid the potential for this sorrow: Do not have children.

As the oldest of 10, I often claimed that motherhood was not a route I would pursue. My hours of babysitting had demonstrated how annoying, smelly and loud children could be.

Fortunately for my daughter and son, my attitudes toward childbearing have changed dramatically. When I began medical school, my husband and I lived in different states, commuting on weekends to be together. We had no immediate plans for a family.

Then, as some would say, fate intervened. I found myself the somewhat surprised recipient of the greatest blessing I have ever received: a faint inner heartbeat that belong only indirectly to me.

It was then that I fell in love. This love grew with my son’s first perceptible movements and deepened with his first breath; his first smile; his first step; his first word. This occurred all over again with my daughter.

I love my husband, and I love my parents, but the love I have for my children is the most amazing, most ferocious I have ever experienced. I have come to understand that when a child breathes his first breath, he becomes a gift not only to his parents, but to the human race. Children are more than simply an evolutionary necessity; they are spiritual legacy. When they leave, they steal pieces of our hearts and portions of our souls. We withstand this pain by hoping that we have done the best we could, and that the world will be a better place for our efforts.

The murdered children of Dunblane had very little time in which to make the world a better place. Their lives did, however, enrich the lives of their parents and those who knew them. Their deaths affected even those who did not know them. All parents felt a great sorrow at their passing.

As a parent, I am intensely grateful to have a bit of the future to hold close for as long as I may. This spring I receive my medical degree. I have worked hard and been lucky. I very much look forward to being a doctor.

My career as a physician, however, is ultimately secondary to my career as a mother. My children are the most fulfilling employment opportunity I will ever have. Yes, they have been a source of endless pain and inconvenience, but they have also given me indescribable joy — as they do most parents. My friend Minda spent 19 weeks on bedrest over the course of her recent pregnancy. This was harrowing for a busy physician and mother of a 3 1/2-year-old. All was forgotten, however, on the morning she called to report, “His name is Jonah. He is beautiful.”

I cannot give back to the parents of Dunblane what they have lost. None of us can. It is a loss beyond words; beyond imagining. What I can do is pledge never to forget the wee Scottish lass who shared the name Abigail with my own beautiful daughter, and hug both of my children as often as I can.