Today I had to load my rainbow baby up in his carseat and drive an hour south to the hospital where Damon died. The one place on earth that I never ever wanted to see again, ever. Anytime we drove through the city, went somewhere in the city, anything about the city I would hold my breath and hope with everything I had that we wouldn't have to pass it, wouldn't have to see it much less carry my child INTO IT. Hell.
Our little rainbow has been sick. His temperature remains consistently elevated and jumps into a true fever 3-4 times a month. Something most parents would probably just "keep an eye on." We don't keep an eye on... we kept an eye on and Damon died. Two days before he died he was playing at the park. We don't take chances. We don't go for "he looks good, he's playing and eating."
Yeah... do the test.
We went to see a pediatric diagnostician. I didn't know if we would have to walk into the hospital. I asked where the office was. She told me something like the offices were attached to the hospital. I couldn't choke out anymore questions. I was to afraid to ask. Would knowing I'm going to have to walk through those doors make having to do it any easier? Nope.
Honestly, I wasn't even sure if I would remember anything about the place. There are massive black holes in my memory of Damon's last hours. For a very long time it was all black. The only time I remembered was in terrifying flashbacks that I couldn't control, or in nightmares that were skewed depictions of what was. Slowly over the past year memories have come to me as memories, not the pensieve-like immersions of PTSD. They hurt like hell but I have some control over them and I do absolutely everything in my power to shove them away.
I. can't. deal.
I wondered the whole drive if we were taking the same route the ambulance took. We pulled into the parking area and I recognized everything. EVERYTHING. We walked into the lobby and I remembered everything. I remembered Will and I walking under the soaring ceilings holding the last imprints of our child's hands, just staring at them through the fog of pain and disbelief. I remembered.
Hell.
I remembered and I cried. I cried all the way up the elevator. My head started to swirl and the black started to close in. I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe. Will handed me my rainbow and I could breathe. I could breathe enough to answer the receptionists questions, even if I was getting weird looks.
I had to explain why I was crying. "Oh, mom, are you a worrier?" Damn straight I'm a worrier.
They poked and prodded and X-rayed and examined my baby today. I kept expecting them to declare that he must be admitted, to make that long horrible walk into the PICU again. I'm not sure if I took a full breath all day. I was in some sort of robotic mode. Do what needs to be done. At some point the tears stopped and I was all business. Get this done and lets get out of here. I wanted desperately to get my child out of that place... like they were going to take him away... like once one of my kids goes through those doors they will never come out.
When it was finally all over I sat on the bench outside of the sleek sliding doors watching people walk in and out, clinging desperately to my little rainbow, and wondered if someone was making that horrifying decision to turn off the machines, if someone was walking those halls in pure agony, if someone was on their face in that little hospital chapel begging a deaf god for healing. Everyday so many parents begin the stumbling, falling, crawling journey that I'm on. I wish it weren't so. Did someone say goodbye to their baby a few floors above me today?
As I pulled away from the curb I kept looking back at my son, desperate to take him in, desperate to see him in the car with me, to see his sweet exhausted little self breathing and there and alive. I think part of me almost expected him to disappear.
We came home and we spent the rest of the day playing in the water and the mud and the sun. I needed to just be with him. I needed to not care about anything else, to give myself permission to just be. I congratulated myself on how well I was doing. "Ok, that was brutal but you're doing ok now." After an afternoon of play I got dinner on the table and something in me just clicked off. It was as if my brain said "You've done what you needed to do to take care of your family. You're done." So here I sit, in my bed, tears sliding down my face, trying to pour the poison in my soul into the black words on this screen.
Rainbow baby is 16 months old on what would have been Damon's 4th birthday. He would have been FOUR!! It's so damn unfair...
I've been counting the days until my littlest makes in to twenty months, as if that is some magical number. If he can make it past the age when Damon died he'll be ok... Now he's sick, four months away. I'm a wreck. I'm a wreck of utter terror. I'm a tornado of clashes between logic and experience.
This is so hard and it never gets easier. I'll never be ok. I miss you Damon.
Until next time...
