I finally went home. Regrouped. Gathered fresh clothes. Showered. Said goodbye to my three kids. Brought baby blankets back to the hospital and settled in. She had her procedure in the room and I felt turned to stone. The next few nights it was harder for there to be two people there durning the night shift and I decided to stay by myself. My body was healing and I felt strong enough that if she couldn’t sleep I’d be able to handle it. Marley wasn’t intubated, but she did have a nerve block in her neck that immobilized her. I couldn’t pick her up. She slept. We were in C wing. As the sun settled on the hospital I walked my husband out to go home. That night we had a great nurse. I sat on the couch/bed and wrote. I could feel it all bottling up and I knew I’d cry that night. The curtains were drawn and I was alone with just my baby who was spread out and peaceful.
I cried. I sobbed. I broke.
My father and mother are talkers just like me. A bit reserved but always rooting for other people’s story. They are insanely supportive. Protective. I was not surprised to hear dad had talked to another grandpa that was in the waiting room with a baby- Jonah, that was born early and needed heart surgery. They had to wait until he was strong enough to do it. Grandpa was a pastor and they were a strong family too with a strong faith. My dad said they would pray for Jonah and he did. Dad never forgets the name.
I remember the nurse saying once that baby’s don’t die of heart attacks they die because they stop breathing.
That night I sobbed alone. The nurse came in and with with heartfelt eyes and sympathetic ears listened and stayed with me. Then there was a code Blue. She ran out of the room. In the hospital silence I heard a blood curdling wail of a mom and knew the baby died. It was so silent that night. It lasted maybe 10 minutes. And I heard it echo as she left the floor. I knew she wouldn’t be back. All I could think is tonight she’s going home with no baby. The puff of her tummy empty with nothing to show for it. I didn’t know it was Jonah. I didn’t know this baby. I never met his mom.
I made up my mind then that I would never ever cry again like that for my child- she was going to live. She was going home someday with us. She was alive.
I didn’t share that story to anyone the next day, then my dad asked if I knew what room Jonah was in. Said he didn’t see the grandpa that day. It was confirmed he was in that room and he was gone. (It should be noted that the hospital did keep privacy and did not share any inappropriate information.)
That night changed me. It was a shift in perspective. It was a shift in my hope even though I can still feel her sadness in her cry. We left C and went to burn unit shortly after that and we are came off of that floor different. I hope I never forget the child whom I never met and whom lived such a short little life here on this earth. Jonah’s family impacted mine and I pray for them still.
I cried. I sobbed. I broke.
My father and mother are talkers just like me. A bit reserved but always rooting for other people’s story. They are insanely supportive. Protective. I was not surprised to hear dad had talked to another grandpa that was in the waiting room with a baby- Jonah, that was born early and needed heart surgery. They had to wait until he was strong enough to do it. Grandpa was a pastor and they were a strong family too with a strong faith. My dad said they would pray for Jonah and he did. Dad never forgets the name.
I remember the nurse saying once that baby’s don’t die of heart attacks they die because they stop breathing.
That night I sobbed alone. The nurse came in and with with heartfelt eyes and sympathetic ears listened and stayed with me. Then there was a code Blue. She ran out of the room. In the hospital silence I heard a blood curdling wail of a mom and knew the baby died. It was so silent that night. It lasted maybe 10 minutes. And I heard it echo as she left the floor. I knew she wouldn’t be back. All I could think is tonight she’s going home with no baby. The puff of her tummy empty with nothing to show for it. I didn’t know it was Jonah. I didn’t know this baby. I never met his mom.
I made up my mind then that I would never ever cry again like that for my child- she was going to live. She was going home someday with us. She was alive.
I didn’t share that story to anyone the next day, then my dad asked if I knew what room Jonah was in. Said he didn’t see the grandpa that day. It was confirmed he was in that room and he was gone. (It should be noted that the hospital did keep privacy and did not share any inappropriate information.)
That night changed me. It was a shift in perspective. It was a shift in my hope even though I can still feel her sadness in her cry. We left C and went to burn unit shortly after that and we are came off of that floor different. I hope I never forget the child whom I never met and whom lived such a short little life here on this earth. Jonah’s family impacted mine and I pray for them still.
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