Journal Entry...

January 8th, 2010


I sit in a wheelchair, blinded by the early morning sun. My tears fall silently in rhythm to the incessant beeping of machines and hiss of the ventilator. Sun rays slice through the open window casting warm blocks of yellow onto the floor. I glance around the room; it appears to all be moving in slow motion. My OB is there, the NICU specialist it there. Tears well in her eyes as she delivers the news we prayed we wouldn't hear.


9:02am, her words sound like a tympani drum, building as they flow from her lips. "This inter-cranial bled is the worst we've ever seen." Everything is silent again, just the humming of machines. Minutes pass, and I pick up my cell phone and dial my dad. I barely get out "We have to take him off life support today." The line is silent; utter deafening silence. I choke back sobs and manage a mangled "Love you" and hang up. What do I do now? My mother is on the first of three legs of her flight here. I'll wait until she arrives... there is no use in telling her before then.


The light is beautiful right now. Like the hands of God gently holding the room. I am handed my son for the first time and I can barely control my convulsing sobs as I clutch the tiniest baby I've ever seen. It takes three people to hand him over to me. The tube from his ventilator is taped to my arm and cords and leads are strung over my chair as I attempt to bond with my dying son.


Soon the room is rattled with the sound of people. My family was there. My daughter cautiously enters the room and gazes at me for reassurance. God grants me the serenity I need in the moment as I introduce her to her baby brother. She is in love already. She hesitantly clutches his tiny hand and tells me, "that's my baby brother, I love him." Tears well up and overflow as I put on my best smile and attempt to soak in the moment. Scott is there talking to her; taking it all in. I hear my camera shutter clicking in the room laden with hissing, beeping, and tears.


I am strong now, I know I have to be. People are coming in. My mother arrives a wreck. She doesn't' know what to say. None of us do. More pictures are being taken as people filter in and out.


Soon there is a harp player in the room, serenading us with soft melodies. I look back into the sun, blinded. "I go to prepare a place for you" comes to my mind. Tears flow as sweet plucking fills the room and drowns out the endless beeping and hissing.


"It is time" I say; the moment strikes me like a bolt of lightning. I watch as one by one, everyone says their goodbyes. I feel as if I have done this before... strange and surreal. Scott and I are left alone now as tubes are removed from Leo's tiny form. The nurse passes him to us as we clutch our son in our hands. We whisper sweet nothings to him; how much we love him and how much we will miss him. I tell him how sorry I am that it has to be this way. Hues of orange and pink fill the sky. Glorious beauty witnessed in our sons final heart beats. I gaze down at his tiny face and kiss his forehead.


What seems like hours pass and we slowly finish the rituals of saying goodbye. I watch as the nurses cast his hands and feet. By now the sun is down and low light fills the large room. I see my son in silhouette against the light, and can't seem to peel my eyes away. I kiss him again and hand him to the nurse, who lovingly cradles him in her arms. She knows the magnitude of what just happened. She has seen it before.


I slowly shuffle to the door, not wanting to leave. I walk with Scott's help down the hallway, clutching the handrail. I stop every few feet, as I am weak in pain and sadness. Scott takes me in his arms as we both cry ourselves to sleep on the daybed in our hospital room. We awaken to tear stained pillows and a depth of sadness I never thought possible. Sobs feel strained, as if I can't reach the depths of their bottom; like being unable to take a deep enough breath.


Numbness starts and I know family will be here soon. My dad walks in and all I hear is the shrill sweet voice of my daughter saying "Grandpa, you're here!". My dad breaks down as he scoops up my darling daughter. I know this moment is one I will remember the rest of my life. I know that the night before, our Leo ran into the arms of Jesus says, "I'm here Father, I'm here."


Peace washes over me as the room settles down. Everyone I love is there. We fall into routine pleasantries, even laughing at times. The room is like a prison cell in my own hell. I want to go home. I want to start picking up the pieces of my life. My OB okays my early leave, just 2 days after an emergency c-section and loosing a child. She knows I will loose my mind if I stay within those walls.


We ask to see Leo before we leave. I lead the group into a "Reflection Room" in the maternity wing. My son awaits us, wrapped in many blankets, with a hat low on his head. His cold body warms in my hands as I cling to him for the last time. Tears are streaming down everyone's cheeks. Outside the sun is starting to set. Blazing orange fills the room with warmth. My father breaks down, kneeling at my feet before our precious son. How rattling this is. How expected and yet unexpected all at once. More layers of reality run over me as I savor these final moments with my son. Goodbyes are said, kisses are stamped on his forehead, prayers are recited.


It is time to go now. I don't want to leave. I hate giving him back to this nurse. She smiles like an idiot; as if I was handing her flowers, instead of my dead son. I knew it was time to leave. I was on the verge of breaking down. With a deep breath, I handed him over to the nurse and walked out the door. I feel like my whole heart was left in that room with my baby. How will I gain it back?


I hurriedly pack my things... I hate being there. I want to go home.


It's 5 am, as I lay looking at the ceiling. A small ray of light gracefully casts its way along the outer edge of our bedroom drapes. Pain throbs through my abdomen. I slowly lift myself out of bed and reach for the pain medication from the doctor. I slowly shuffle into my daughters room. The house is silent in the early morning hours, as I am the only one awake. I kneel on the floor next to my daughters bed watching her sleep. I focus on the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she peacefully slumbers away. I let silent tears fall as I watch the sun slowly rising outside her windows. Soon my dad is up and finds me in her room. He sits down with me as we silently take in the moments and miracles.


It is a new day. We slowly shut her door, and make our way downstairs. My incision throbs in unnerving pain with each step. We head into the kitchen, where coffee is my only refuge. I gaze out the window as the light floods over the fence in the rising ritual. Already it is warm. I go outside and water my plants. The cool concrete feels damp beneath my bare feet. I watch a spider weave a perfect web covered in morning dew. A grasshopper perches near by and follows me fence post to fence post as I make my way down the line of potted plants with the hose. He brings tears to my eyes.  He reminds me of my Leo. I am blessed that morning. God knows my pain. I feel his presence. I close my eyes and feel the sun on my face. "You are there" I say.


I go back inside and sit with my dad. We silently sip coffee. This communion of ours touches me to the core. I don't want this moment to end...