Ave Maria

We played all of your favorite songs and some of our own softly by your head all night. I laid by your side in that little hospital bed, my hand resting gently on your little chest. I wanted to feel your heart beating as much as I could before it was given away. The sound of beeping varied on the machines and the medication was altered more than a hundred times to keep you going, but only to make sure you could save the lives of others. We were far past the point of saving you. You were somewhere else, somewhere far more beautiful and serene than that tiny room, but we were here with just your little body, trying to keep your organs going.

You never think it will be you. You change the channel when a story like yours comes on the news, you scroll past them quickly on facebook. Seeing a child you don’t know covered in the same tubes and cords was always hard enough for me. When it was you, it completely broke me. I’m broken so far beyond repair that I rarely go to sleep without a fight. I find myself shaking my head aggressively multiple times a day as though I could actually shake out the thoughts and random flash backs. It is impossible to remember you without remembering the end of you, but maybe one day I will be able to think only of your smile or laugh and kisses or hugs. Those were sweeter than anything I’ve ever experienced on Earth.

As the hours counted down, the feelings of anxiety and hopelessness grew. Eventually, our time with even the shell of what once was you would be over. We couldn’t hold your hand, whisper in your ear, lay with you, read books to you, play music for you, or kiss your precious face much longer. It felt like we were losing you twice; once in our own backyard and again in the hospital. I stroked your little foot and it moved. Every time I was met with, “It’s just a spinal reflex,” and every time I was devastated. To see your toes wiggle or twitch and be told it had nothing to do with your brain cut so deep. I just wanted to bring back some of the hope that had been dwindling away. The word “hope” itself now just seems stupid.

After days of holding your feet in my hands to warm them, crying all over your face and hair, sleeping next to you although I was so afraid to mess up the medical equipment, obsessing over your comfort, and telling you how incredibly sorry I was, it was time for you to go. As you were being prepared to move to the OR, I wanted so desperately to scream for one more day or even one more hour, but I knew it couldn’t be done.

We played Ave Maria. The doctors and nurses of the PICU stopped all of their tasks and lined the hallways. I don’t remember any of the faces but they were lined from end to end as you were slowly rolled away with us following behind you. We were told it was called an honor walk and we’ve been told it’s a rare occasion, which I am thankful for. It happened in slow motion, my feet felt like they were sinking deeper into quicksand with each step. I wanted to pick you up, to hold you, to nurse you, and to just love you. I made one, single attempt to raise my head to look at the faces honoring you and I just couldn’t. I could only stare at you, tears flooding my vision, and Ave Maria was the only thing I could hear.

We reached the elevator after what felt like hours but was only minutes. We gave you our final goodbye kisses and off you went. I wanted to just lay down on the cold tile floor and die right where I stood while I watched the doors close, but instead we had to go back and gather our belongings.

The middle of the room where your bed was was empty and bare, much like how I felt inside. Everyone had gone back to working and we were left to try to figure out how to continue on with just simply living. We still are trying to figure it out, and it’s only getting harder.

Life without your beautiful soul is hard. Too hard, almost. I can talk until I run out of words and I can take medication until I feel like an emotionless zombie, but those are only temporary bandaids. You were light, Lydia. You ARE light. I don’t know how to attempt to figure out how to do this anymore and I don’t know if I even care to try.