Such a large part of me died the same day that Boston did, but unlike when people actually die and leave earth, I am still here and forced to deal with what is left. I know that even though he died that I am and always will be his mom, and that he will always be my baby, but what do you do with the parts of yourself that no longer get to actively take care of your child? I feel like I constantly carry them around like weights. I am tired and exhausted and I don't want to carry them. I want to carry him. I want to be tired because my son keeps me up at night, not because I can't get the image of him laying lifeless in front of me out of my head. I will never forget the moment I saw him that day at the hospital. It is burned into the back of my brain and it is one of those awful images that you don't want to look at, but can't get yourself to turn away from.
I had just finished my last break at work and was about to walk back upstairs to take more calls. I pulled my phone out of my pocket one last time and at that moment I received a text from my mom that said "baby isn't breathing calling 911." She had just gotten there to take him to get his first shots. I called her right away. No answer. I called back and she was crying. I know no one would ever joke about that, but I really thought that when she answered she was going to say "Never mind. Sorry for the scare, he's fine." All I can really remember is that she said the ambulance was on the way and that I needed to tell work that I had to leave right away and meet them at the Emergency Room. I could hardly walk or talk, but somehow managed to get up the stairs and tell the guy in charge of our training class. My mom has apologized numerous times for telling me the way she did, but I'm actually thankful that it happened that way instead of a random person at work having to pull me aside and tell me what was going on. He offered to have someone drive me, which I probably should have agreed to, but drove myself. I talked to Boston's dad the whole way there and I remember both of us repeatedly saying that he would probably be fine by the time I got there.
I carry a dreadful amount of guilt with me because when I first arrived at the hospital I couldn't get myself to go in the room with him. I was half way in the door and there was 5 or 6 nurses surrounding him and I literally could not get myself to actually look at him. I had to be brought into a different room and a nurse sat me down and all I could really get to come out of my mouth was "Oh my God", "What the f**k", and "Why?" I was going to apologize for the language for anyone who might be offended reading it, but trust me there is no way to handle a situation like this gracefully.
I only truly recall a few parts of mine and the nurses conversation (some of my recollections might not even be correct as far as timing and order but this is how I remember it). I recall asking her quite a few times what was going on but they really weren't sure yet, so I finally asked her if his heart had stopped. She hesitated and then said "Your son is very sick right now. His heart stopped beating." She followed with something along the lines of they were doing everything they could to get it to start again. I also recall her mentioning that they were having someone come down for "pastoral care" which I believe I responded with another "Oh my God, why!?"and I think I asked her if that meant he was dead. She told me that it was "routine protocol" and didn't mean that they were done trying, but I think it was at that point that I knew it was unlikely my son would be coming home with me. I had her go check on him again. While she was out of the room my uncle who is a deacon at St Michael's Catholic Church walked in. I have no idea what was said at this point but then the nurse came back in and asked if I wanted to go into the room with him. I hesitated but knew that I needed to and my uncle came in with me. That was the first time I actually looked at him. It was the scariest and most awful moment of my life. He was a weird grayish color and was hooked up to a bunch of monitors. He also had a breathing tube in and was being given CPR. I could hardly stand up so they got me a chair and I sat right next to him. I was afraid to touch him, but a nurse told me I could hold his hand, so I did. He was already kind of cold. It was very hectic in the room. I remember them calling out each time they were checking for a pulse, but I watched the monitor the whole time and his heart rate stayed a flat line. My uncle was standing behind me and I remember hearing him say "Come on Boston, breathe." Our pleas to him were not answered because not long after someone asked for the time (it was 3:46PM) and a nurse grabbed my hand and kneeled down by my side and said "I'm so sorry." All I could respond with was "No" over and over again. They removed the cords that hooked him up to the monitor and for some reason I vividly remember them taking the breathing tube out of his mouth. Then they changed his diaper and handed him to me. He made a noise not long after being placed in my arms and I thought "Thank God! They were wrong!" but the nurse told me it was just the air leaving his body.
I let a couple people know what had happened myself, and as the words were coming out of my mouth I kept thinking that it just had to be some awful dream. How could my baby really be gone? As my family and friends started showing up at the hospital I almost started to get angry, not at them, but I think each person that came started bawling the second they walked into the room and saw him, and it was just confirmation that it really was that bad. He was really dead and there was nothing I could do to change it. As a mother that is the most horrid feeling on earth. How come I couldn't fix him? That is what moms are for, that is what we do. When they cry, we fix it. When they are hungry, we fix it. When they are sad, mad, sick or whatever it may be, we are there to fix it. I am responsible for giving him life. I carried him for 9 months. I gave birth to him. I fed him. I loved him. I catered to his every need. Why couldn't I fix my baby when he needed it the most!? I knew that having a second child would have it's challenges, but this was not supposed to be one of them. You plan and plan and plan for 9 months for the things that having a child brings, but you don't ever consider that all of those plans can be brutally ripped from your life in a matter of minutes. Instead of making decisions about normal things, like what clothes my son would wear to daycare the next morning, all of the sudden I was being forced to decide if I wanted molds made of his hands and feet. I was hesitant at first when the nurses asked me, but only because I did not want him to leave my arms. It was also hard to let other people hold him, but for the same reason. I wanted to hold him. I wanted everything surrounding us to disappear, and just sit there and hug my baby. At some point my mom came back into the room and told me that I didn't have much longer with him, so I asked if we could be alone for awhile and everybody left the room. I talked to him and told him how much I love him, and how so so sorry I am that this happened. "Oh my Bosty" probably came out of my mouth at least 20 times as I kissed his forehead over and over again and ran my fingers through his crazy hair. And then the door opened and the detective and my mom walked in. I asked the detective how much longer I had with him and he said "Two minutes, because things are going to start happening and I would not want you to remember him that way." It took everything in me not make a run for it out of that hospital with my child in my arms. I am his mom I shouldn't have to be told how much time I have left with him. I should've had the rest of my life. When it was time for me to leave, the detective promised me that he would make sure that he was well taken care of. Handing him over was the hardest thing I have ever done in my entire life. I kissed his forehead a couple more times after placing him in the detectives arms, and then I left. I didn't want to leave, I didn't want to get in my car, I didn't want to go home. I wanted to run back into the hospital and beg to stay with him, but I knew I couldn't, and so began my life without my son.
It has been exactly one month since Boston died. If anything, it keeps getting harder. At first everything is such a shock that you don't really realize how difficult living without your child is. I know people say it will get better, and maybe someday it will, but there is a huge part of me that never wants to be okay without him. Regardless, I will never be complete. It doesn't matter if it is 5 years from now or 20, there will be an emptiness in my life and heart that only he could fill.
I came across this article last night and am glad I did. It's a long article and I don't expect very many people to read it, but I know that me losing a child makes many people uncomfortable in the sense that they're not sure what to say because it's hard to imagine what I'm going through. It provides a very accurate description and can give insight for those who are wondering. There is a section about a 3rd of the way down called "Parental Grief And A SIDS Death" that I highly recommend anyone and everyone to read if they have the chance. Here is the link http://athealth.com/topics/the-death-of-a-child-2/
"What a life to take, what a bond to break,
I'll be missing you"
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