Antonio was strong and solid, he made his living with his hands. He worked ten hour days in order to support his family of four, and was completely dedicated to giving his children a life where they would want for nothing. A father of two, a husband to one, and in one night, suddenly a childless widower.
I met Antonio the day after his son was brought up to the ICU, his back to the window in the parent locker rooms. He was quietly sobbing and fingering a string of prayer beads. I was just dressed and out of the shower, my hair still in a towel, and had my wallet between my teeth so that I didn't accidentally pack it away in the locker again. I went and said hello and asked him if the Liason had been around to show him the in's and out's of the ICU area. We got a cup of coffee and sat down at the table, and he proceeded to tell me everything.
Antonio's wife, Marlena, took her son to soccer practice twice a week. Afterwards they would go to her mothers house so the children could visit their abuelita. One evening on the way home, a flash flood hit highway 400. The storm was so swift, the roads so slick that Marlena lost control of the van, overturning it into a ditch that was filled with water. Their four year old daughter was killed on impact. Bradford, Antonio's son, completely aspirated the water, drowning and losing oxygen for three minutes. The paramedics were able to revive him long enough to put him on Extra Corporeal Membrane Oxygenation (ECMO) at Egleston. Marlena died on the ambulance ride, and Antonio was left with nothing except for the hope that his son would make it out and to his next soccer game. His parents would come sit with him for a time, but were also getting arangements made for his wife and daughters burial. Antonio missed their funeral to be with his son.
For five days, I sat with Antonio whenever I saw him. He would pace around the hospital to the gift shop and back up to the PICU, buying random trinkets and picking up prayer cards from the chapel to tape around his sons bed. Antonio used his hands to lift his son while the nurses were bathing him. During my time with him, I handed him my clinging cross, a simple wooden cross made for the palm of the hand.
One day, on my way down to the parking lot, Antonio found me and placed the clinging cross back into my palm. He told me that they were taking his son off of ECMO for better or for worse, and that he didn't think God could help him now. He turned around and left, and I cried for him, and for the knowledge that not everything is healed through faith. I then prayed my last prayer, asking God to give this man strength and to hopefully make it through this alive, to continue his path. What I did not acknowledge then, was that was the beginning of the end of my relationship with God.
That same day, around five o'clock, I heard a banshee's moan and the crash of IV poles into glass. Antonio's son had died.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Jack and Diane
They say some children were born simply to pass on to the spirit world to become angels. That, dear reader, is complete bullshit.
On the second day of my daughter's coma, I met Diane*. We sat outside, right beside each other because subconsciously we needed physical closeness with someone who felt the same grief as the other. We did nothing but cry, hunched shoulders touching ever so slightly. Diane's daughter was two, the same age as mine. She had blonde curly hair, as did mine. Her daughters favorite movie was Curious George. On and on were the similarities, until we began to care for each others children. Diane had a husband named Jack. He was at least 6'5" and when he gave his wife a hug he was so tender, and the grief in his eyes so apparent, that it made me cry. Such a terminal illness for such a very special little girl.
She was on an oscillator because her lungs were killing her. She was afflicted with Fibrosing Mediastinitis, causing her lungs to turn fibrous, and as a result, slowly suffocating her. Diane's daughter was not supposed to live past six months, as she was born with the bottom right lobe of her lung already damaged. She lived to two years and three months old.
When I met Diane, we didnt talk for the first two times we saw each other in the smoking area. I would sit beside her, or vice versa, and we would give each other watery smiles that said simply "I know." What we both instinctively knew was that we both had children that almost didn't make it through the night, and we had seen each other thrown out of their childs ICU room because of one or the other going completely unstable and as a result, almost dying. On the third day, when we were both able to talk without breaking down into tears, we introduced ourselves, told our stories, and shared the heartbreak and fear of losing a child. When our husbands were in the rooms we would go downstairs and have a cigarette, or walk to the restaurant around the corner to get something to eat.
For two and a half weeks we used each other as a sounding board, and talked about everything from the best position to sleep on the pull-out sofa to the best moisturizer to use because of the dry hospital air. We went outside and yelled about stupid nurses, bad interns, cute residents, and everything else hospital related. We never spoke of going home, because underneath it all, I knew that with any luck my daughter would come out of that hospital, but Diane's very well might not.
Then one morning, Diane and I played dirty scrabble in the waiting room. She laughed and genuinely smiled for the first time. I smiled, and when rounds were over, we went back to our respective rooms. I handed my game to her, and told her to get Jack to play a few rounds. When I got into Meghan's room, they told me it was time to leave the PICU. I spent all day packing our lives back into bags to prepare for our move. When we left, I stopped by Diane's room to tell her "hey, we're going upstairs! I can't believe it! Keep scrabble for the evening, I will come by tomorrow to get it and we'll have coffee. Wish us luck!". She smiled, hugged me, and said "Congratulations! I will see you in the morning, then." That night, when I was playing with my daughter and rocking her to sleep, Diane's daughter passed away. I would have sent flowers, but I never got their last names.
On the second day of my daughter's coma, I met Diane*. We sat outside, right beside each other because subconsciously we needed physical closeness with someone who felt the same grief as the other. We did nothing but cry, hunched shoulders touching ever so slightly. Diane's daughter was two, the same age as mine. She had blonde curly hair, as did mine. Her daughters favorite movie was Curious George. On and on were the similarities, until we began to care for each others children. Diane had a husband named Jack. He was at least 6'5" and when he gave his wife a hug he was so tender, and the grief in his eyes so apparent, that it made me cry. Such a terminal illness for such a very special little girl.
She was on an oscillator because her lungs were killing her. She was afflicted with Fibrosing Mediastinitis, causing her lungs to turn fibrous, and as a result, slowly suffocating her. Diane's daughter was not supposed to live past six months, as she was born with the bottom right lobe of her lung already damaged. She lived to two years and three months old.
When I met Diane, we didnt talk for the first two times we saw each other in the smoking area. I would sit beside her, or vice versa, and we would give each other watery smiles that said simply "I know." What we both instinctively knew was that we both had children that almost didn't make it through the night, and we had seen each other thrown out of their childs ICU room because of one or the other going completely unstable and as a result, almost dying. On the third day, when we were both able to talk without breaking down into tears, we introduced ourselves, told our stories, and shared the heartbreak and fear of losing a child. When our husbands were in the rooms we would go downstairs and have a cigarette, or walk to the restaurant around the corner to get something to eat.
For two and a half weeks we used each other as a sounding board, and talked about everything from the best position to sleep on the pull-out sofa to the best moisturizer to use because of the dry hospital air. We went outside and yelled about stupid nurses, bad interns, cute residents, and everything else hospital related. We never spoke of going home, because underneath it all, I knew that with any luck my daughter would come out of that hospital, but Diane's very well might not.
Then one morning, Diane and I played dirty scrabble in the waiting room. She laughed and genuinely smiled for the first time. I smiled, and when rounds were over, we went back to our respective rooms. I handed my game to her, and told her to get Jack to play a few rounds. When I got into Meghan's room, they told me it was time to leave the PICU. I spent all day packing our lives back into bags to prepare for our move. When we left, I stopped by Diane's room to tell her "hey, we're going upstairs! I can't believe it! Keep scrabble for the evening, I will come by tomorrow to get it and we'll have coffee. Wish us luck!". She smiled, hugged me, and said "Congratulations! I will see you in the morning, then." That night, when I was playing with my daughter and rocking her to sleep, Diane's daughter passed away. I would have sent flowers, but I never got their last names.
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