September 2, 2010
Sweet James, tomorrow is my 28th birthday, but all I can think about is tomorrow you would have been 3 months old.
It breaks my heart, and I am not sure how I can celebrate my birthday without you. I know you are in Heaven, and it soothes me some to realize you will never have to face this cruel world we live in. You will never be disappointed or have your heart broken. You will never break a bone or even scrape a knee, but I would give anything to help you through all of those things.
I selfishly want you here. I want you here for Thanksgiving and Christmas—Lucy’s birthday and your 1st birthday. I have been asked a couple of times the last few days what I wanted for my birthday and the only thing I want is to hold you, kiss you, feed you a bottle and snuggle. I want to rub my hand over your sweet head full of hair and kiss your belly. I want to take in your scent and just hug you.
However, each day that passes the reality sets in even more than you are gone. It’s eleven o’clock at night right now and I should be listening to the hum of your monitor and wondering how long you will sleep tonight. I can remember praying that you would sleep a long time so your dad and I could sleep longer because we were so tired from work and taking care of Lucy’s needs on top of feeding and changing and holding you. What I wouldn’t give to take that back and spend all the time I could with you—to embrace the 3AM feedings and to understand how blessed I was to have you. I can’t change anything though. I can’t change that I chose to go back to work at six weeks instead of eight—but Gigi will forever be grateful for those two weeks she took care of you.
I am angry that I was going through some very bad depression during the last few weeks of your short life. Daddy was so worried about me and began to let me go to bed earlier and he stayed up with you to give you your last bottle for the night. I would then get up with you the next time—it might be 5AM or it might be 2:30AM…. and I am angry for ever being so selfishly frustrated at you for waking up “too soon” only to find you on August 7th and see that you didn’t wake up at all.
I will never, ever, forget that morning.
I will never forget attempting CPR and after I blew air into your mouth, the air came back out and my heart skipped a beat because I thought it was you breathing. It wasn’t. It was only my breath being released back out.
The next thing I knew Gigi was in the room along with many, many paramedics. I had to leave your side and let them get to you as I clung on to the hope that you would make it. I had never felt pain like that. I just kept screaming, “NO!”
Everyone was moving around so fast and I felt like I could no longer breath myself. I didn’t know what was happening other than I was throwing on clothes and being guided to the elevator. I thought we were headed to the hospital.
Nope.
When we got down to the ground floor of the hotel, instead of being taken to the ambulance or hopping in any car available to go to the hospital…I was guided to a room in the hotel. It looked like a room you might hold a big meeting in. The walls were bare and there were chairs pulled out but no table. At the end of the room I saw a table with pitchers of ice water. Why wasn’t I with you?? Why was I in this stupid room?
I remember getting sick in a trash can as the severity of the situation would hit me in waves. I began to rock slightly as I just knew it was not going to be okay. This was NOT happening to me or your daddy….or anyone who loved you.
After what seemed like hours one of the male paramedics walked into the room. I could barely see through my tears.
Everyone was silent.
He pulled a chair up and sat directly in front of me. He began to tell me that they did all they could—the surgeons did all they could…then he looked right at me and said, “your baby is dead.”
He may have said I’m sorry—your baby is dead…bur all I heard was “baby” and “dead.”
I know he was kind and offered his sympathy, but I could no longer hear-see-think. My world just crashed, and I wondered if my heart was literally going to explode. There was no way my baby was dead. You were only 9 weeks old—this had to be a mistake.
Oh, how sadly I relate to this moment in your life and to you. The thoughts, the feelings, the haze, and the disbelief. You know your heart still beats, but you cannot feel it; your breathing is labored, and your insides are sick. You hear words spoken, but they are not understood-so many words-and your thoughts are completely garbled.
I pray no parent ever has to experience the death of their child, for it is truly life-altering. There is always a void. The pain never leaves.
But, I like you, know where my sweet child is and Who she is with. And that knowledge-that faith- has enabled me to move forward; even on the days I do not think I can. Yes, even on those days, God is good. Always good.
Thank you, Amanda for sharing your life. Thank you for letting all of us in the Angel Club know that we are not alone in this walk. Thank you for being brave and courageous; for helping us navigate. I love you so much.
It is such a disbelief! The pain is consuming.
It is a bit scary to put it all out there, so-to-speak, but what I got the most from when I would read things after losing James–were those things that were real and raw. Like a friend said recently, people don’t always want sunshine and rainbows–they want to know you can go through Hell and still come out the other side.
Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts!
Oh Amanda, I remember that morning like it was yesterday. God had arranged for all our family to be in one place to support each other but especially you and Jonathan. It was a very long drive back to Mississippi……
It was such a long drive back. The silence. The disbelief. The growing realization that it did actually happen….. and we were returning without James.
Thank you for all you did during that time; I am not sure how I would have made it without the love and support from my family.