Welcome to the world, Autumn Grace

Autumn Grace. That's her name. Sort of sounds like a fine wine, or a Walt Whitman poem. She arrived just the other day, the way most babies arrive.

Doctor, hospital room, nurses. Scrunched up face. A little bit of hair. Pink as a fresh blossom of cotton candy. And her heart ‹ one, two, three ... four. Four chambers. Four glorious chambers.

In most births, the number of chambers in the baby's heart is something thatvwould never get a mention. But in Autumn's case ... Well, it's just a little different with her. Her parents, Angie and Ryan Heidelberger, know all too
well what can happen when a child is born a chamber short.


Let me back up a little bit.


Journalists are known for being cynical, for questioning everything, for trusting no one. But even the most cynical among us have hearts. And there are few stories that I've covered in my career that have touched my heart the way Hazel Heidelberger's did.

Hazel was born Jan. 1, 2009. Doctors didn't realize until days into her life that she came into the world with a broken heart: just three chambers instead of four. And over the course of the next two weeks -- 13 days to be
exact -- Hazel fought to stay alive ... and lost.

A few months later, Angie walked into the newsroom. She was starting up a new nonprofit to raise awareness about congenital heart defects and wanted to get it mentioned in the paper. I was in the newsroom that day, and I cover nonprofits, so I took her to a conference room where I planned to take a few notes, get something in the paper and move on.

But as she told me her story, the heartbreaking tale of giving birth to a dream, and having that dream taken away after 13 days, I realized this isn't the kind of story that gets done with a mere "mention."

I sat down the Angie and Ryan for a long time. We went over the entire sequence of events, several times, in great detail. They were the kind of emotional interviews where I'd leave their house, drive down the road and
have to pull over because my hands were shaking and all I wanted to do was hug my  four-chamber-hearted kids. I interviewed the Heidelbergers' nurses, parents, toured their hospital rooms. I even visited the roof of the Mankato
hospital, where Hazel left in a helicopter bound for Rochester.


The result was a three-part series that, in some ways, is the best thing I've ever written. I've always been proud of it, but that pride has always been tempered by sorrow; I was able to write a compelling story, but only
because they lost a daughter.


One of the parts that sticks with me to this day was the end of the final installment, a passage that describes a tree planted in Hazel's memory in Spring Lake Park, and all the children's activities that take place there:

"Hazel's tree stands among it all, its pink leaves a reminder that a little girl with a broken heart should be here."

Anyone who knows Angie knows her struggle with Hazel's death has been an epic one. And for those who care about her, it's been difficult to watch. She's got such a big heart and would do anything for anyone. But it seemed no one, sadly, could make her feel any better.


Angie has also become a good friend of mine and we still keep in contact. In fact, when she asked me to serve on the board of the nonprofit for which she serves as director, Lasting Imprint, it would have been impossible for me to say no. She's been a tireless advocate for families impacted by congenital heart defects, as Hazel was. She's also helped raise thousands of dollars for research in the hope that her efforts can some day spare a family and child the heartbreak she and Ryan went through with Hazel.


Now comes Autumn Grace. I couldn't possibly be happier for Angie and Ryan right now. There is nothing they wanted more than to fill their North Mankato home with the sounds of a child. It will be. But the memory of Angie's first daughter, not the mention the child she lost in a miscarriage, will be there, too.


"It's very bittersweet," she said.

But now, as Angie says, a new chapter is starting. She that, as her family and Ryan's family gathered to welcome the new addition to the world, people spoke of Hazel without hesitation, without fear of it being the wrong subject to bring up. A new miracle in the room can have that affect on people.

She's not concerned about people wondering if having Autumn will help her finally get over the loss of Hazel -- most of her family and friends know she'll never "get over" that kind of loss. She's more worried about people,
even well-meaning people, who will ask her how it feels to finally be a mother. 


Ever since Jan. 1, 2009, she's never forgotten for one second how it feels to be a mother.

"I don't want to minimize what she gave us," she said.

Hopefully, when spring comes and that little tree in Spring Lake Park starts to show some pink leaves, Autumn can be wheeled down to the park in her stroller and spend some time with the spirit of her sister. And maybe in
Autumn, Angie has found someone who can ease a little bit of the pain that still exists from the loss of Hazel.