8/20/2018

So much of this day is crystal clear, and so much is like a blur. We spent the night before in the NICU, letting Lizzie meet her baby brother for the first time and we were told to keep our phones close because things were precarious. I woke up to pump throughout the night, going on as usual, always glancing at my phone with trepidation. When it finally rang that morning, time slowed completely. I can remember the way my heart dropped into my stomach and how it felt when I saw the NICU number on my caller ID. It was months before I could hear my phone ring without feeling instant anxiety. The voice on the other end spoke calmly and clearly, telling me that I needed to come to the NICU, to get there as soon as I could, but to be safe, take a shower, make any phone calls I needed to. That's when the trap door opened and I fell through. It felt like walking through sand as I went up the stairs, I spent my nights in the recliner in the family room, so that when I woke up to pump every 2 or 3 hours during the night, I wouldn't wake up Liz or Taylor. I wanted to run up those stairs, I felt such an urgency, but my body wouldn't cooperate. I think I went in and woke Taylor up, my voice shaking, then told my mom that I got a call and we had to hurry. I climbed into the shower and just stood there. I wanted to yell and scream, but I couldn't hardly make a sound. I couldn't move my arms, I just stood there and let the water wash over me like the grief I was feeling. Taylor came in and washed my hair for me and let me cry, "I'm not ready to say goodbye, I'm not ready" was all I could say. What can you say when you know, in your heart, this is it. This is the day we fought so hard to prevent for weeks and weeks. The 15 minute drive to the hospital felt like 5 hours. I was so afraid we would get there and it would be too late, that he would have gone without us there, surrounded by just machines and beeping and people who weren't us. We finally made it and made our way down the longest hall in existence to the NICU. When we made it into his section, I could see more people than usual in his room, but the machines were still going, everything sounded "normal", but the mood was palpable. The doctor pulled us out and had us sit. This is where it gets fuzzy for me. I remember hearing words, things like "no urine output", "collapsed lungs", "restart his heart", "nothing we can do." I also remember hearing a baby cry in another section, that cry piercing every part of me as I realized I'd never hear my own baby cry. The doctor showed us an x-ray they had taken that morning of his lungs. If you've ever seen a lung x-ray, the chest area is kind of light. This chest x-ray was just all dark. To see in black and white, literally, the condition of your baby's failing body was devastating. We were once again, as we had many, many times since my water broke, given the choice of what to do with his life. Because both lungs were collapsed, his kidneys were not working properly as he had had no urine output in a long time, we were kind of at a cross roads: let him pass away peacefully in our arms, or wait and see, which meant possible cardiac arrest, more suffering for our little baby who had already suffered his entire Earthly existence. We knew we didn't want to let him go, but we had to. How could we let him suffer more when we were given the gift of letting him pass in our arms, surrounded by those who love him? That we could all have such a beautiful transition from this life to the next. It all felt like a dream. Sometimes it still does. I never in a thousand lifetimes would have expected to bury one baby, let alone two. I never would have thought I'd be presented over and over again the choice of whether my baby would live or die. And I never thought I'd be in the position to take my own child off all life support. When we finished talking with the doctor, we finally got to go in and spend some time with our boy. He looked very different, very swollen, purple, lots of veins and arteries so prominent under his skin. It was shocking to me, but it helped to confirm that we were doing the right thing. I sat there, trying to memorize every line, every curve of every inch of him. I took photos of his toes, of his hands. I wanted to engrave his image into my mind. We had family come and say hello and goodbye, many of them seeing him in person for the first time. He was given a blessing that he might pass peacefully. Then we had to tell Lizzie that her brother would not be coming home. I thought my heart was already broken, but it completely shattered when she started crying and asking why her brother couldn't just come home. How do you explain something to a 4 year old that you can't even understand yourself? It was absolutely one of the most painful conversations I hope to ever have. We spend the next few hours surrounded by family, bringing them back so they could say their goodbyes. I was so torn between feeling a need to take him off the vent, and wanting to hold on just a little bit longer. I was still waiting for that miracle that I had been praying so hard for. I don't think I really cried very much. I felt like I needed to keep it together for Liz, for Tay, for all our family that was there and already feeling so much grief. I didn't want my tears to add to their pain. We finally asked them to remove his vent and we were able to see his uncovered face for the first time. He was so beautiful. It was such a bittersweet thing to finally be able to kiss his little lips, those plump cheeks. I never wanted to let him go. Some of his care team stopped by to see us. One of his Nurse Practitioners, Kris, who was his first one actually, came in. She was the sweetest lady, who clearly loved her job and loved every baby she helped. She was crying and asked if she could hold Mason. I can't begin to describe how much it meant to me to have these care givers grieve with us. To openly show emotion. We also had one of our favorite Respiratory Therapists, Traci, come in. She always would say how Mason was her favorite troublemaker, he always kept her on her toes. We hugged and cried on each other's shoulder. I will forever be thankful for the great care and love that was given to our Mason during his time at IMC NICU. We had a wonderful volunteer photographer come from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, and as a result, have some of the most beautiful and treasured photographs. The day felt so busy, so exhausting, and no matter how much I wished time would just stop, it didn't. For the second time, I handed my baby to another, knowing I wouldn't see them again until I dressed them for burial. If I thought the walk into the NICU that day was long and hard, the walk out was on another level. Leaving that NICU felt so final. I wouldn't be coming back. My baby is dead. Other people get to bring their baby home, but I don't. Again. I don't know why I chose this as a part of my Earthly existence, but I believe that I was given the choice in Heaven. I know I will see Mason again, but I just wish it were different. I wish he were here. I wish I didn't have 2 headstones in a cemetery to visit instead of two pairs of hands to hold. But I know I would rather have a moment of love, than a lifetime without it. A year later, I can see how I have been blessed by Mason's short life. I've found a new dedication to taking care of my body, because his body failed. I have a deepened appreciation of Lizzie and the absolute miracle that she is. I am still working through the trauma of this whole experience too. I'm changed forever, how could anyone not be? PTSD has been my companion this past year, and I feel has made grieving harder. In addition to grieving Mason, I've had to grieve the loss of the family I had always imagined. I always wanted a lot of kids, now I'll be lucky to have one more, but it's something I'm not ready to dismiss yet. I will never birth a baby without a c-section again, I will never get to experience labor. Any baby I have in the future will be delivered at 36 weeks, or earlier, should my body try to go into labor. There will be a lot involved with having another baby. Something I'm not sure I'm physically and emotionally prepared for. But even if Mason was my last baby, I'm so honored to be his mother. I'm honored to be Lizzie's mom and Hunter's. These special spirits were sent to me. ME. What makes me worthy of them? What makes any of us worthy of the special task of raising children. It's truly a gift. If you are blessed with children, please hold them close. When you're at the store, with more children than you have hands for, and they're driving you crazy, pause a moment to think about what a blessing it is to have your hands full. When your baby is waking up every hour in the middle of the night, and you're exhausted, remember another mama is losing sleep over missing her baby. If Mason's life and loss can teach any of us anything, I hope it's that life is precious. Being a parent is a gift. Our families are what is most important and they are FOREVER.