Life these days is a precarious balance between bewilderment and bliss. The past few days have been a balancing act on a tight rope across the sky. I find myself teetering on the edge in the most unlikely moments: washing the dishes, dispensing vitamins, changing diapers. Nothing is the same and everything is the same. It isn't but it isn't. All the routine stuff of my day is not so routine anymore. There is a deeper appreciation for a screaming baby and a little boy who still hates to sit and eat at the same time. But there is a profound sadness at what could have been.
And I have yet to break. I am waiting expectantly for it though. I want that moment of despair to come so that I no longer dread it. I need the catharsis that only a soul wrenching cry can give. And I am waiting for it.
Here's why.
On February 19th, 2014 my baby boy died. At 12:56 AM the bedroom door to our room flew open, the light was thrown on, and I was awoken to the cry of my husband saying, "He's not breathing. Oh God he's not breathing." I remember looking at the clock. I remember throwing back the covers. I remember starting CPR while he called 911. I remember my precious blue jay being ice cold and the color of gray skies. I remember pushing on his chest and blowing air into his mouth. I remember blood coming out of his nose and breast milk foaming at his mouth. I remember desperation and nothingness. And I remember going outside to wait for emergency services to arrive. It gets foggy after that. The next thing I can recall is holding Michael outside of the ambulance preparing him for the inevitable: our boy wasn't going to live. In those moments I just knew he was gone and we had to start accepting that. While paramedics, firemen, and police men and women did their best to revive him we stood by helplessly waiting for someone to tell us it was all just a dream. This wasn't happening. But they never did. It was the most active silence I have ever experienced. The work of saving a life was happening right behind us and no one was saying a word.
That night I learned that I excel in the crisis. Irony at it's best. Ask anyone who really knows me and they can attest to the fact that I lose it in the everyday. But for some reason I can hold it together when there seems to be no hope. And that is what happened. Michael rode with the ambulance and I waited for a neighbor to come and keep watch over a sleeping Maddox before I left with an officer.
Nothing can prepare you for something like this. After the ambulance headed out, I was left alone with two police officers telling me hard decisions were on the horizon. I heard them talk but I didn't comprehend. And then the fire chief came. When he walked through the door I instantly recognized him from the cross fit gym. And I melted. I melted to the floor and he melted with me. In that moment I needed to be known by someone and although our connection existed inside a hot and sweaty gym where I worked my body it was enough. I felt a crack in my soul. His name is Paco and he was an angel that early morning.
Somehow I got to the hospital. A police officer drove me. We talked about country music and nothing at all. I remember thinking to myself, "am I acting appropriately?" I have seen far too many crime dramas where the perpetrators gave themselves away by acting inappropriately and I wondered if I was one of them. The thing is I had all sorts of thoughts that night, random thoughts. Being a few weeks removed now, I think I was unconsciously deflecting. I couldn't deal with what was happening and was reaching for any sort of normal I could find. None of it felt real. My mouth was dry. I wanted to go back to sleep because surely when I woke up this wasn't happening. Except it was. There is no prescription for grief. There is no protocol. I learned that firsthand.
When I got to the hospital I remember seeing a couple of familiar faces in the nursing staff. I saw the doctor. I couldn't look at my baby. People were stern, focused. One cop and some paramedics stayed. A surreal quiet surrounded our space. We were loved by those around us. And I folded. I folded over and stayed there. In those moments, I held Michael who was needlessly carrying the burden of our pain. He blamed himself. I wanted to protect him from those destructive thoughts. There was no sense to any of these. There was no blame to be assigned to anyone. And we waited.
I remember our Pastor and his wife being there but I cannot tell you when they arrived. I remember standing with them and Michael. I remember squatting in the hall. I remember calling my parents and having terrible reception. I remember being driven home not knowing what was happening next. Now I know that baby P had been revived but coded again. Somehow they brought him back again. The flight crew from FL Hospital for Children arrived at our local hospital after a failed attempt from our flight crew to take him from Melbourne. Michael left to go to Orlando and I stayed behind to await my mom's arrival. She came and took the reigns assuring Maddox, our oldest, would have as close to normal a day as possible. I left with two dear friends who dropped everything to be with me and take me to Orlando.
And I waited some more. I knew that Patton had survived the flight but had no clue what I was walking into. The next few days were a blur of tests. We still had no idea why he quit breathing. Nothing in the previous days hinted at any illness. First the CT scan of his brain came back clean indicating no damage. Check. Then the EKG of his heart came back clean. Check. Initial results were promising but the doctors, without saying it outright, were waiting on something to indicate damage. After all, no one can go as long as Baby P did without oxygen and survive with no residual damage...except he did. Meningitis was the culprit. The prevailing theory is that his little head hurt so much that he simply quit breathing to avoid the pain. He fought the illness in the safest place possible.
Baby P is fine.
I cannot explain it. I have no words. I do not understand. He is a miracle.
I also cannot explain why I never asked "Why?" I cannot explain the supernatural peace I had. Please do not misunderstand, I was terrified. I was confused. I wanted to believe none of this was happening. But in the midst of it all what I felt more than anything was Peace. A peace which transcends all understanding.
We spend 10 days in thee PICU. Baby P came home last Sunday.
And now he is cutting teeth.
He is alive.
He is a miracle.
There is so much more to the story.
