The night of Haley’s VNS surgery we got a handy 24 hour stay in the PICU. It was precautionary as she has a notoriously difficult time waking from anesthesia and has limited options for rescue protocol.The PICU holds some awful memories for me and I was both sad and relieved to see familiar faces in the doctors and nurses in the floor. We were thankfully not in the same room where I watched my baby girl slumber for weeks in a coma I wasn’t sure she would awaken from.
No. This time we were in the side by the bathroom. Fist pump. (The PICU rooms don’t have individual bathrooms).
Haley recovered well from both the anesthesia and post op pain. Seizures were no worse than theyhad recently been averaging and we settled in for a long night of sleeping and seizing.
And then late into the night, I heard the commotion. Alarms ringing and pinging and voices shouting. Shouts to page respiratory. Shouts of codes being called out. Orders barked. But what really resonates in my mind was the sound of a Mom echoing through the wall. The long keening Noooooooooo followed by many more no”s strung together. The sobbing and crying so hard and loud that she was retching.
I lie there next to my child whom I was reasonably certain would be discharged the next day and I wept. For a little boy lost and a Mom whose grief I could feel though I cannot fathom the depth of what she was feeling.
I wanted to go to her. I wish sometimes that I had been brave enough to leave the cocoon of that bed with my living, breathing child and go to her. But I heard her cries echo down the hallway as someone escorted her out.
And when our nurse came in with her face flushed and tear stained to do vitals even though we didn’t need them, I kept silent. Knowing somehow that the routine and the reassurance were what she needed in that moment. Our eyes met and I wanted to ask- did he make it- even though I knew the answer. I desperately wanted her to tell me a miracle happened. But I couldn’t push the words out. I didn’t want to hear the truth. And she laid her hand on Haley’s forehead as tenderly as I would. She left with a wave and we settled back in, me wrapping both arms around McSeizy and burrowing my face into her. Grateful and guilty at the same time. And the thought reverberating in my head was “I heard a little boy die tonight”. I felt helpless and hyperaware of the fragility of life though I see reminders of that daily in my own warrior. Contemplating too that I could have been somewhere else that night, blissfully unaware of the anguish inside those walls. A reminder that we are all living parallel lives and so many never intersect.
Tonight we are home. It has been nearly a month since that night but I can’t forget the boy whose head was just on the other side of the wall or the Mom who must be still so grief stricken. And I wish I could tell her that I’ll never forget them. Either of them. They haunt me when I lie next to my baby girl and watch her chest rise and fall. And I am extra grateful for each breath that she takes knowing how hard he fought for his last.
I didn’t know that grieving a child would make you sob until you retch. I didn’t want to know. I hope I never feel that pain.And I know that it haunts me because I can imagine all too easily myself in her shoes. Because I have had moments that I thought might define me in that way- as a mother who has lost a child. Every time I see the stiffened limbs and blue lips, every time I hear her gasp for air that she can’t get enough of. Every time I panic. I fear that every seizure is THE seizure that will claim my baby girl. And it takes everything in me to not get bogged down by that, to push through it and live this life we have been granted.
I hope somewhere a Mom who is grieving her little boy knows that I grieve him too even though I was just on the other side of the wall.