A Nightmare

June 10th. The Day of Emily's open heart surgery. Joel and I arrive at the hospital as early as we can, but the nurses are already prepping Emily for surgery. We hang back and just watch. I have to leave the room when they insert an IV into Emily's neck.

Finally the prep work is done. We can say good morning to our baby. Oh how I feel so disconnected from her! How helpless I feel! She is hardly 5 lbs, so tiny on that enormous bed. Her eyes are open. She looks at us. Drugged as she is. As she looks at us, Joel sees his little girl, comforting her parents with her eyes, "It's ok, Mommy and Daddy, I'll be all right." 
I see a tiny, frightened child: "Don't leave me Mommy. Don't leave me Daddy."
I stare into her eyes, just inches away from her face. How can I describe the helplessness I see within her? In me? How can I describe the love I have for her? The tedious hopes? The anguish? I kiss my little girl and force myself to step back.  We follow her as far as we can down the hallway. They wheel her through another set of doors. And we wait. Joel leaves to keep a promise to play football with our three year old son. I head to the waiting room. To wait.

Wait.

A doctor comes in to give me updates about every 90 minutes. It's a four hour procedure. I sit there, numb. I don't move. I can't read. 
Somehow I start chatting with the person next to me. They have a little girl, about 2 years, in for a minor surgery. They get to go home today.

Conversation wanes quickly when they learn of my little Emily. And silence resumes. Wordless, I sit. And wait.

My memory blanks as I think back after Emily's surgery. I think I walked back to her room once nurses believed she had stabilized. She is asleep of course. Still drugged. Her breathing machine is back in place. The beeping has resumed. I touch her soft head. There is a white pad on her chest, and some new tubes. (How many tubes can a newborn have?) 

We stay as long as we can, and then we must go back. Back to our other two children who need our love and care.

The next day. June 11. 

It is a beautiful day, Joel and I stop to get a cup of good coffee on the way to the hospital. We are in good spirits. No doctors called in the middle of the night. We are sure Emily is in the clear and that God is healing her now. We laugh in the car. We smile at each other. It is so nice to smile.

We receive a phone call while we are in the car lot. Emily is in trouble. We hurry to park the car but it seems everyone needs hospitalization that day. Finally we find a spot to park and rush into the PICU. Emily is not stable, but seems ok at the moment. After awhile, I need to pump, so I quickly rush off to the "nursing room". While I am in the room, a knock sounds upon the door. It is Joel. He sounds urgent. He says Emily isn't doing so well and that I need to come quickly. When I come out, a doctor is with him. It is the same doctor who gave me the updates during Emily's surgery. She is very friendly, but I have a feeling that receiving her undivided attention is not a good sign.

We walk quickly to Emily's room. The room where butterfly artwork hangs and her purple butterfly balloon sails. Emily isn't sailing. She is failing. I sit in a cold plastic chair for an hour facing the foot of Emily's bed, shock and numbness make me frozen, unable to move. She is going. Leaving. I can't believe it. The doctors seem to amass. And nurses retreat. Only two nurses remain. They are out of their league here. 

The doctors, the specialists, talking, brainstorming. 

It seems as if there is a blood clot. The new Gore-tex valve in Emily's heart is too big. One millimeter too big. As a result there is too much backflow of blood. She's not getting enough oxygen. 

One doctor begins CPR. Pushing. Thrusting. Mercilessly. Trying to keep Emily's heart pumping. But I know, deep in my soul, I know she's gone. And I want to scream. Scream at the CPR doctor. "Emily's body is already broken, why do you have to make it worse? Let her die, let her go, just stop...please." 
But I don't scream. I don't do anything. 

Emily's lungs are failing. Her heart.... Her kidneys.... her liver... Her body is limp. 
The white pad on Emily's chest is no longer pure white, it is a deep, deathly red. 

When a body fails, when does death happen? Does it happen when the heart stops? Or when a body can no longer breathe? Does a person's soul leave at anytime, even as the heart is failing?

Emily's death certificate says she died at 1:17pm, just before she turned exactly nine days old. But I believe she died before that. At least her soul had gone, her body being hardly sustained by machines.

Most of the doctors leave. The nurses pull the curtain. Somehow I am dragged over to her bed. Joel slides his hands under her still warm body, lifting her, giving her up to God. I stand there. Numb. Frozen. Jealous of Joel's open grief. I can't even cry. 
Finally something small inside me snaps and I want to hold her. I grab at her. Wanting her, wanting Emily. The nurses try to disconnect Emily as quickly as they can but they are not fast enough. 
I sit down with Emily, the IV still in her neck, cords and wires stretched to their limits. I wrap her in a blanket and rock my baby. I hold Emily close as she cools, and I rock. 
The nurse pulls the tape off of Emily's face. For the first time I see her. No breathing tube, no tape, nothing in her nostril. Just her face. And I love her.
The blood pools to the back of her head. And I try to keep her warm. I pray. Or at least I try to. I try to believe that God could still heal her, still raise her. Bring her back from death's stubborn grip. I believe so hard that I am surprised Emily doesn't open her eyes. 
But it is inevitable. She is dead. 
And as her face turns grey, losing her glow, I crumble. 

Of course I know where she is now. Her soul, in blissful eternity, worships the God who has created her. Finally she is no longer drugged, no longer tied to a bed, no longer under heat lamps, no longer listening to machines. 
No. Emily is in joyful paradise. And there she will remain.

Wherefore should I make my moan,

Now the darling child is dead?

He to early rest is gone,

He to paradise is fled.

I shall go to him, but he

Never shall return to me.

God forbids his longer stay,

God recalls the precious loan,

God hath taken him away,

From my bosom to his own.

Surely what he wills is best!

Happy in his will, I rest.

Faith cries out, it is the Lord!

Let him do as seems him good.

Be thy holy name adored,

Take the gift awhile bestowed;

Take the child no longer mine,

Thine he is, forever thine.

-Charles Wesley