Almost

Sometimes I read other blogs about children who are medically fragile. Occasionally there will be a post about the day their child almost died. And there is almost always a picture of their child on a ventilator. Pictures that remind me of when Dominic and Bridget were in the PICU. Pictures like this:

 

 

The pictures of when Dominic and Bridget almost died.


Sometimes I have memories that are too real to simply be a memory. Like when we were driving yesterday and I saw the ambulance coming from the off ramp. And I remembered being in that ambulance with Dominic, sitting next to the driver. Leaving the world of amusement behind us and trying to get on the freeway. Following a little old man in a truck who apparently couldn't hear the sirens, see the flashing lights. And who apparently thought he was still driving on the city streets by the speed he was going. I was trying to tell him through ESP or something to please hurry, to move out of the way. We had to get my little boy to the hospital. He almost died, but they're going to save him! Please just move out of the way!

If I could go back in time, and change something. There is only one word that needs to change. Almost. Instead of "they died", how I wish I could go back and add "they almost died". How much of a difference it would make:
"They almost died, but they've saved them!"

But all I can say is, "They almost saved them, but they died."






When I read those other blogs, I am relieved for the families. That the photos they post following those events are ones of their child recovering, growing, developing. But I admit, that there is something of envy in me. Because I would so much like to be doing the same thing.

Loved

One page of thirty seven. Too short. I transformed Bridget's journal into a scrapbook of sorts. Putting her pictures along with the words we entered each week for her in our family journal.

That week before we let ourselves be too busy to write, though. The week I had become so very worried, and taken her to the pediatrician thinking he would know what to do. The pediatrician who thought she was fine. And why I would trust him when only six days before Dominic stopped breathing in my arms, this same pediatrician, as the on-call doctor for our regular pediatrician, had also thought to tell me that the irregular breathing I was seeing was nothing of concern. Yes, I did take Dominic in twice more that week to his regular pediatrician. He also thought everything was going well.

I can't blame them. I look at the pictures, and think back to those precious memories I have been able to cling to, and they are both just absolutely perfect. But in hindsight, there are some pictures that are eerily telling. It is what I was seeing in Bridget that I remembered about Dominic that had scared me so much. That I had tried to get the doctor to see that day before. That she was having the same kind of lethargic episodes, irregular breathing. But those were episodes, dispersed between the moments when you would never think anything was wrong.

That is what scares me still. To watch our other children seemingly perfect at times, and then at times with episodes so much like Dominic's and Bridget's. No one seems to be comfortable saying everything is going to be fine anymore. And I wonder if the other children, just as deeply loved, will suddenly be snatched away.

Today is again the day of celebrating love. Yet those who are loved are not all here. It is a sorrow in my heart that never goes away. It is heavy, and I miss my little Dominic and Bridget so very much. They were so very much loved. It is a love in my heart that never goes away. They are so very, very much loved still.

Gifts

We didn't share my pregnancy with Bridget with very many people. I can't explain to you why. We were excited and happy to be bringing another child into our home. We loved her very much, even though we hadn't had a chance to see her yet. But those months as she grew and developed in my womb were more private moments.

About a month before her birth, I co-hosted a baby shower for a friend who had adopted twins. I was excited and happy that they were able to bring more children into their home. It was truly a blessing and miracle. I wanted the shower to be a special day for her and for them. I hand made each invitation -- nearly 50 of them.

I still hadn't shared with her that we would also be bringing a little miracle home soon. I remember feeling conflicted about that. And as I was trying so hard to put together a shower for her that would be as perfect as her two new little gifts were, I remember feeling a little bit of a sting in my heart. I wondered if anyone would think Bridget was as much as a gift. My friend had adopted her three children, and here I was pregnant with my seventh child. Somehow the world decided that seven is a burden, and not a gift. The world I just don't understand, and feel a stranger in.

That shower was a wonderful event. It was exciting, and I was even more eager to meet Bridget after that. I still kept the news private from most of the world. But my mom seemed to be happy to have another grandchild to start shopping for. She began sending packages. It was like having my own little private baby shower. And I was grateful for the gifts.

About the time we were going to be bringing Bridget home from the hospital, the word got out that our family had delivered another baby. The rumors had been going around for awhile, and here they were confirmed. Friends stopped by with cards and gifts to congratulate us. Even neighbors who I didn't realize knew who we were, nearly strangers, stopped by. One here and another there. We were overwhelmed with gifts.

So many of those things Bridget never had the chance to use. And what she did use, she didn't get a chance to use for very long. Her life was just too brief. Her time with us too short. I had been taking pictures as we received a new gift. I had wanted to write a thank you note to every person who had been so generous, so thoughtful. I had wanted to tell them how much it meant to me to know that Bridget was welcomed into this world with so much love and thoughtfulness. But having a newborn who was so weak and small was all that I focused on. So someday, those pictures would remind me of who gave her what and who to thank. It seems like a formality, but I genuinely felt so touched and wanted to let them know.

And now a year and a half has gone by. I had begun writing notes before Bridget's crisis event. After she died, a neighbor asked what they could do and I asked if they could deliver those for me. It was such a small handful. I never did finish the desire of my heart. So many gifts, and so many people who must feel we are ungrateful.

There are times I wonder if Bridget meant anything to anyone besides our little family. Not many people have taken the time to talk about her or hear about her. Not very many people even seem to remember that she was here. I feel a little bit of a sting in my heart. I wonder if anyone thinks of Bridget. She had only lived those eight and a half weeks. Somehow the world decided that infants have less value than more grown people. The world I just don't understand, and feel a stranger in.

Then I think about the one act of kindness here, and another thoughtful word there. Sometimes friends who offer something. Many times strangers.

On Christmas, we noticed a package on the doorstep. A note was attached, unsigned. It said they often thought of us, and had chosen to give us a gift in honor of Bridget and Dominic:



Something about Christmas makes grief so much more heavy. But something about Christmas also brings out goodness in so many. It seems so odd, maybe vain and materialistic, to find comfort in things. This gift did give a measure of comfort during such a difficult season.

And I thought back to how I survived that first Christmas without Bridget. How lonely we felt. How abandoned. But then just at the right time, my grandma called to tell me to expect a package. She wouldn't be offended if it wasn't something we liked, but she had been thinking of us. I hadn't heard from my grandma since the funeral, and so just hearing her voice was comforting. Then the package came. I opened it and was so overwhelmed. So very touched. It was truly one of the most thoughtful, amazing gifts we had ever been given in honor of our cherished little ones. But I left it in the box, and kept it in the closet. Too precious to expose.

After receiving the picture on the doorstep, and remembering that feeling of comfort when I needed it most, I decided it was time to re-open this gift. We had never shown it to the kids:



I pulled it out, then spread it onto the floor. Our youngest son seemed mesmerized. He immediately went over to it, and placed his hand on her hand print. He seemed almost to worship it. And then after a little pause, he went and got his toys, brought them over to the blanket, and went on playing as if he had never been interrupted. It was as if it was a new sanctuary for him.

I feel a little embarrassed admitting it. But it is these tangible things that sometimes get me through on the hardest days. When I can't stand that she isn't here in this tangible world with me. When I wonder just what Dominic would look like, sound like, be like. On those most difficult days, I sometimes pull out the gifts. Some given to them before we even entered the world of grief. Others shared as a token of sympathy.

Sometimes it is just a memory of a gift. Like this cookie that was given to me the month before what was to be Dominic's 7th birthday:



His nickname was "froggy". I'm sure if he had lived to be the seven year old boy he would be today that the silly little term of endearment would have long been forgotten. Fading into the days that blur away as childhood moves seamlessly into young adulthood and then fully grown. We don't usually remember "the last day" of infancy, "the last day" of toddlerhood, "the last day" of childhood... it is all a blend of days, good and bad, that make us who we are.

In the world where there are days on the calendar that mark the last days. Where my heart is so heavy in grief. I feel so grateful for the kindnesses, the tender mercies, that have gotten us through. That I can know that those two little gifts awaiting in paradise. That Dominic and Bridget are remembered. Just as loved and cherished as the other six little gifts here in a tangible world with us.