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plenty of other families shared their situation, which offered some consolation. But when Ivan
destroyed the Colbey home in September, there was little comfort in finding herself in line
with thousands of other people seeking assistance from the Federal Emergency Management
Agency (FEMA). Aid eventually came. The Colbeys were given a FEMA camper trailer as
temporary housing, and they put it on their property so the kids could stay in their nearby
schools. Marsha and Glen had found construction work and roofing jobs at the start of the
summer, but now it would be weeks before rebuilding jobs would be available.
Marsha could also tell that she was pregnant. She was forty-three years old and hadn’t
planned on having another child. All she could think about was how in a few months the
pregnancy would limit her ability to do construction work. Her worry sometimes tipped over
into a deeper anxiety that triggered an old temptation: drugs. But there were too many people
depending on her, and there was too much to manage to give in. Five years earlier, police
were called after nurses had found cocaine in her system when she was pregnant with her
youngest son, Joshua, and the authorities had terrified her with accusations and threats of
criminal prosecution, imprisonment, and the seizure of her children. She was not going to risk
that again.
She and Glen were dirt poor, but Marsha had always compensated for the things she
couldn’t give her kids by giving them all of her heart. She read to them, talked to them,
played with them, hugged and kissed them constantly, and kept them close at all times.
Against all odds, she nurtured a precious family bonded by an intense love. Her older boys,
even her nineteen-year-old, stayed close to her at home despite the many distractions that
emerged as they finished high school. Marsha liked being a mom. It’s why she didn’t worry
about having so many kids. Getting pregnant with a seventh was not what she had expected
or preferred, but she would love this child as she had loved each one before.
By winter, things in Baldwin County had settled down. Jobs had returned, and Glen finally
found more steady work. The family was still struggling financially, but most of the kids were
back in school, and it seemed as if they had survived the worst of the destruction.
Marsha knew that a pregnancy at her age was very risky, but she couldn’t afford to see a
doctor. She just didn’t have the money to spare. Having endured six previous deliveries, she
knew what to expect and thought she’d make the best of it without prenatal care. She tried
not to worry even though she’d been experiencing some pains and problems with this
pregnancy that she didn’t remember having before. There had been bleeding; if she could
have afforded an examination, a doctor would have found signs of placental abruption.
Their old trailer sat next to the new FEMA camper and was largely uninhabitable, but it
still had running water and a bathtub, which afforded Marsha a quiet getaway from time to
time. One day, she wasn’t feeling well and thought a long hot bath would do her good. She
settled into a tub of hot water minutes before a violent labor began. She sensed it was
happening too fast and before she knew it, she’d delivered a stillborn son. She desperately
tried to revive the infant, but he never took a breath.
Although she’d initially fretted about the pregnancy, Marsha mourned the baby’s death and
insisted on giving him a name and a family burial. They named him Timothy and buried him
in a marked grave beside their small camper home. The baby’s stillbirth might have remained
a private tragedy for Marsha and her family had it not been for a nosy neighbor who had long
been suspicious of the Colbeys.