April 9, 2003

While April 8th is C’s “bad day” (as he doesn't remember much past that day), April 9th was the worst for me.

We’d made it to morning light after an awful overnight. After getting C transferred from the suburban hospital into the urban PICU, we had been trying to use this special pressurized mask with C to get him good oxygen, but it was very uncomfortable for him and he actively fought it. No one had slept.

Sometime around morning rounds, maybe earlier, a portable xray was brought in to take another film of his chest. Immediately after seeing the film, the attending physician came to get us. He needed to speak to us, and he looked grim.

He showed us the films. Fluid had been building up in C’s left chest cavity, his trachea was deviated from the build up, the pneumonia was spreading, and his little body was getting very tired. His oxygenation wasn’t good. Dr. F said he thought C needed to be intubated.

I remember feeling hollow inside. My husband sucked in a breath and bent over at the waist, his face in his hands.

I looked at the doctor and could see that we really had to do this.

I don’t remember the next few minutes. I do remember going in to kiss C and tell him how much I loved him and say I would be right next door and what a great job he was doing. My husband was going to stay with him.

At some point some phone calls were made or received or something. Someone was on their way to sit with us.

I don’t know how long I sat in the empty PICU room next to C’s, hearing activity and shaking.

I remember the all-hospital pages starting and my husband coming in to the empty room with me and he was crying.

At once I understood what was going on and didn’t want to believe what was going on. Every breath was a desperate gasp of air yet I had no idea how I kept breathing. I was trying to break the boundary of a nightmare and couldn't.

I begged God, and all our relatives who have passed to send him back, it’s not his time yet.

Then our friend H was there and we were crying and my husband and I were holding onto each other and H had her hand on my back and the all-hospital pages kept going.

Then one of the nurses brought a person I didn’t know into the room. The nurse introduced her as M, one of the pastoral care counselors. My husband looked up and said, “Yes, I know M,” and the look on M’s face was one of horror. My husband knew M from his own work at the hospital; she often is brought in to talk with families when things aren’t going well.

At some point, my brother-in-law arrived (M had gone to stay at their house the night before), not yet understanding what was happening, and I remember my husband holding on to him and crying.

I bargained with God. I'll get him a dog, I'll take him LegoLand, I'll do anything, I pleaded.

My husband had to get in touch with his office. The head of his division called, and my husband said to him, “Oh, J, we’re in deep trouble here,” and he could barely get out the words to tell him why.

Time passed, I don’t know how much, and we just kept holding on to each other.

At some point, Dr. G was able to stabilize C. The fellow came in to talk to us to tell us that C was in very critical condition and there were no guarantees but that they were doing everything they could.

We went in to see C. There were fourteen tubes going in and out of his body, and a high-pressure ventilator making a ton of noise. There were two nurses (D and J) very busy tuning everything every second but making time to tell us that we were always welcome to be there with him. I was scared to be in there, and I was scared to touch C. There was blood on the floor.

Time continued to pass and I continued to breath even though I wasn’t sure how all that was possible.

Then there were more people there, I think. More phone calls had been made. One of the nurses moved a pull-out chair into a room near C’s so perhaps I could sleep. I laid down, but sleep wasn’t possible. I remember being encouraged to eat but every bite was a battle. How could I eat when my baby boy was barely alive next door? I remember thinking I should try to talk to these people around me but every effort seemed stupid because I just wanted to burst out of my body and scream and turn back time.

My memories of that day continue like this, in snippets of fear. I don’t know how they link together. People came, people went. Colleagues of my husband, family, friends. Doctors, nurses, other hospital staff. Phone calls. Coffee.

At some point later in the day, I remember asking if there was someplace I could take a shower.

I wanted to wash it all away.