“Every morning, I wake up and forget
just for a second that it happened. But once my eyes open, it buries me like a
landslide of sharp, sad rocks. Once my eyes open, I'm heavy, like there's too
much gravity on my heart.” -
Sarah Ockler
I’m not like a lot of people.
Friday is not a day I yearn for. In fact, it’s my least favorite day of the
week. It was ruined 12 years ago when my son died at the age of three months.
I relive that day a lot. It
comes back to me in flashes at odd times during the day. I often dream of it.
There has not been a single day since Sam died that I have not thought of him,
wondered what he would look like, what his voice would sound like, what his
hugs would feel like.
I’ve chosen to share that day
for today’s post.
Friday, January 3, 2003 was
cool and sunny, and I decided to see if one of Sam’s new outfits fit him yet.
Made of blue terrycloth, with light blue stripes and light green stripes it
looked warm and soft and comfortable. Though a little big, it looked great on
him with his deep, deep blue eyes.
I decided to take both kids
to the park that afternoon. Violet, at 15 months, enjoyed romping around,
climbing the steps and sliding and swinging. Sam, at three months, was content
to rock in his car seat. When he began to squirm, not fussing, just wiggling a
little, I took him out of his car seat and held him. That made him happy. He
smiled and cooed and looked around with his big, bright eyes.
Sam and Violet were very close.
He was fine. There was
nothing wrong with him. He was a happy, healthy, smiling three-month-old
boy.
At home, after Violet had
dinner, I gave Sam a bottle. He took 5 ounces of formula but, as usual, I could
not get him to burp. He was always a hard burper. At 6:30 I gave Violet her
bath. While Violet was in her bath, I kept an ear on Sam. He made his little
baby noises and babbled to the blankets on my bed. It was hard juggling the two
babies alone, especially at bedtime, but we had established our own little
routine. I wanted to get Vi to bed, then I would get Sam and we would have our
evening time together.
He usually cried while Violet
was going to sleep. I typically kept him in the den with us, on his Boppy
pillow, and Violet would take her bottle and go to sleep in the midst of his
crying. But that night I left him on my bed.
He cried. Hearing him squall
like that just tore at my heart. I knew he thought I had abandoned him. I remember silently thinking that if he would
only be quiet, if he would only wait just a little longer, Violet would be
asleep and then it would be just him and me for the evening. Then, almost as if
he read my mind, everything got very quiet. Violet fell asleep and I put her in
her crib. Sam had fallen asleep, too.
I should have woken him up
then. I usually would have. His awake time was from roughly 6:30 – 9:00 or
9:30. That is why I usually let him fuss while I fed Violet, to keep him awake.
He rarely fell asleep during that time. I decided to let him sleep a little
longer.
I noticed a couple of times
when Sam’s arm twitched, and his head bobbed up once, like he was dreaming. He
was still there, still alive. My baby was still alive right then. All I had to
do was pick him up and he would be fine right now. I never let him sleep at
that time. I should not have let him then.
I went to wake him up at 7:28
pm. I rubbed his back so I would not startle him, but there was no response. He
could be a very sound sleeper when he finally slept. I picked him up and will
never forget the way his head just fell, completely limp, backward. I looked at
his face, really looked at it, and I saw how blue it was. The little corners of
his eyes and his lips were purplish-blue. The creases at the sides of his nose
were blue. And his hands…his tiny, long-fingered, perfect hands, were so very,
very white.
From that moment, everything
became surreal.
Sam’s whole body was
completely limp, like he had no bones. I dived across the bed, called 911, and
began CPR. When I breathed into Sam’s mouth, I heard those 5 ounces of formula
bubbling. Each time after Sam’s chest rose with my breath, some formula gushed
out of his mouth as his chest once again collapsed. But Sam was not breathing.
He had no pulse. I remember screaming. I remember crying. I remember pleading
with God not to take my baby boy. Something inside me knew it was already too
late, but he was still warm, and I prayed that there was a chance.
I kept doing CPR. I kept
doing it until the fire truck stopped at the house and I let in the EMTs. They
went to work immediately. I wanted to go with Sam in the ambulance and an EMT
reminded me to grab a pair of shoes. I did not stop to put them on. I just
grabbed a pair of sneakers.
I remember thinking how long,
how horribly long the ambulance ride was. They were still working on Sam. They
had not given up. I saw one of them look at me through the little window
between the front seat and the back of the ambulance. He had such pity, such
sadness on his face. Finally we arrived at the hospital. Mom and Dad were
already there, but it did not occur to me to think that was strange, did not
occur to me that I had not called them, had not called anyone, in fact, except
my neighbor Carol to come stay with Violet. They looked so scared. Mom asked me if he was breathing and I told
her no. He was not. I broke away and followed the stretcher inside.
In the ER a whole team of
people stood waiting for us; they were all assembled in a kind of half circle
around the table. I remember being so grateful to them for already being there
and ready for my Sam. I wanted to stay. I tried to stay, but they would not let
me. They said they had to ‘do some things’ and they needed me to step out. I
kept saying, over and over, “I’ll just stand here, I won’t do anything. I want
to stay. I want to stay. I want to stay.”
They forced me out of the
room even as I was screaming “no!” They brought Mom, Dad, and me into a little
private room. It was tiny. No windows. Just a couch, a chair, and a phone. It
was the death room: the room they made people sit in until they could come tell
them that the person they were working on had died. I hated that room. Dad held
me while I sobbed. Mom looked like she was dying inside. Then Dad left the room
and Mom moved beside me. After what seemed like an hour, though it was really
only about 10 minutes, a nurse came in to tell me that they would bring in a
chair for me and I could go back in the room where they were working on Sam if
I promised not to interfere or get in their way. I promised. I said over and
over, “I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be good.” I sat there as
I watched them try to bring my baby back to life. Over and over I prayed that
God would send Sam back, that he would not take my baby from me. They tried.
They worked so hard to keep him here with me. But they could not. At 9:00 p.m. they
stopped. It all stopped. The shots, the orders, the pumping on his tiny little
chest. The EMT who drove the ambulance to the hospital began to cry. The doctor
told me that they were going to stop, that my baby was dead and they could not
bring him back to me. It could not be true. Just a few of hours ago Sam had
been smiling at me, full of life, full of promise. I asked if I could hold him.
The nurse wrapped Sam in a clean blanket and put him in my
arms. I never wanted to let him go again. I kept him to myself. My parents and
one of my sisters were already with me, and just after they handed him to me,
another of my sisters arrived. Her face crumpled when she realized that Sam was
gone. My sisters sat on either side of me, while Mom stood behind me. I kept my
Sam in my arms. I kept saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Sam.” I just
wanted to wake him up. But he would not wake. He was so still. I reached to
stroke his soft, still, beautiful white hands.
My mind refused to take it
in. It was just too big. It was too final, too sudden, too
abrupt.
I kept touching Sam, running
my fingers over his smooth, round cheeks, touching his nose, his forehead,
rubbing his head. His hair had just begun to come in. It was like a soft,
fuzzy, military burr. I just kept touching
him, kissing his hands, his face, the top of his head. I knew I would never get
to touch him again, not like this. So I just held him. I held onto him for two
and a half hours. I tried to memorize the exact way he felt in my arms, how the
slight weight of him nestled perfectly into the crook of my arm, how his head
almost always turned toward the left. Then they told me that it was time for
them to take my Sam away.
A woman took Sam out of my
arms to lay him on the table. His body was so small. He looked so vulnerable,
so exposed. She placed him on another clean blanket and began to fold it over
him. I reached down and uncovered his
face. He never liked to have his face covered. I whispered my goodbyes to him.
I told him I loved him. I told him to go and find his family. He has a lot of
family up there. The woman began to talk to Dad about timing as far as getting
Sam to Dallas for the autopsy and back here to the funeral home. She kept
referring to my Sam, my beautiful, perfect baby boy, as “it”: “It will be taken to Dallas, but it should be
back to the funeral home by Sunday morning.”
I did not even realize I was
speaking out loud. “He.” She looked at me. I just repeated, “He.”
Mom understood. She repeated
it to the woman as well. “He, not it.” I could not let this woman, this woman
who talked about my baby as if he were a thing, take my son. I pushed her hands
away, wrapped him up myself, and held him.
I carried him. I was the
first one to carry him, for nine months, and I wanted to be the last. I carried
my baby as far as they would let me.
When we got to the door they
had to take him away from me. I had to hand over my son, my Sam, to this woman,
this stranger. Suddenly he was really going away. They were taking him away
from me and I would never get to hold him again. The nurse took him from me. He
was gone. Really gone. I had to walk out of there and leave my baby behind. I
had my shoes on now. I had left them on the floor of the ambulance and the EMT
brought them in. Someone had put them on my feet and tied them. But I did not
care about shoes.
It took me a long time to
fall asleep that night. I held Sam’s little blue and green terrycloth outfit
against my cheek and slept with his blanket clutched to my chest. I finally,
reluctantly, washed the outfit several days later and my sister placed it, with
several other items, in a shadow box.
My eldest sister made this for me. It was lost in the fire
last year.
But sometimes I still sleep with Sam’s blanket.
Sam died on a Friday.
I will never look forward to
Fridays again.
Sam and Violet on Christmas Eve 2002 Christmas Eve 2002
No comments:
Post a Comment
Keep the comment forum positive, please. Comments written to abuse, embarrass, shame, mock, or taunt will be removed. This is my Queendom and I'm allowed to have it my way.