A Storm Is Brewing

Timeline

The timeline wasn't what we had expected; I think we both thought that it would be a few weeks, but it wasn't. And every week felt like a year. Things got better, then they got worse, and then they got better again, but then they got much worse. It was like a never-ending cycle of a nightmare that just kept repeating itself. Leah and I struggled with the dynamic, not as a couple but as a whole. As a family. We struggled to understand that the world didn't stop; everyone just kept on living, while we were stuck in this same routine of wondering if every day would be his last.

Day three brought heartbreak and devastation. It was a day that tested us, tested our strength, and tested us as parents. It was the day they came to tell us it was time to say goodbye. It wasn't dramatic—not like you see on TV—it was calm, peaceful, and loving. We were given the news in that same room, the one we had spent every minute in since he was born. His lungs had collapsed, and they told us that his heart rate was no longer something they felt they would be able to regain. They gave us time with him—time to tell him everything we wanted to, time to tell him how loved he was, and how we would make sure that everyone knew how hard he had fought.

I'm not going to let you hold him. That one line that made my heart break in my chest, that one line that made Leah clench her fists and demand that we get what was promised to us. Again, the doctor was calm.

"It is their belief that he won't pull through tonight; it is mine that he might. I promise that if we get to a point where I see no alternative and I am absolutely sure that this is the end, I will time it so that you get to hold your son while he is still medically alive."

Hope. In the darkest hour, somehow we had hope.

He didn't give up; that tiny body kept fighting, and contrary to everything that every other doctor, nurse, and midwife had said, our little boy fought to make it beyond those critical 72 hours that they had told us about.

Hope.

Day four was the day that we named him. We didn't tell anyone; only he, Leah, and I knew that he had a name. It was the only part of him that was truly just ours. It wasn't any of the names we had discussed before, and it wasn't a name that would show the meaning behind it—the meaning that it held for us. We knew, though, and that was enough.

Day fourteen was the day that Leah fought with Amanda—not a big fight, but she told her to leave. Neither had done anything wrong; Amanda was conscious that the two of us needed to see something other than the hospital and suggested we go home; Leah was outraged that she would think we could leave our baby. Neither raised their voice or said nasty words, but Leah's tone was enough for Amanda to know that she needed space. Amanda gave her that, placing a kiss on the top of the incubator before she left, then one on my cheek and one on Leah's. Her way of saying, I know you're just exhausted. She wasn't long gone until Leah let the emotion out, until she finally said that she wasn't sure she could leave him because she wasn't here for his birth.

It was me who told you to go. Neither of us could've known. That's what I told her, because that was the truth.

Day eighteen brought happiness. On day eighteen, they told us that they could remove the breathing tube the following day.

Day nineteen brought more heartache as they told us that his vitals were dipping and that the breathing tube being removed would be deadly.

Day twenty-seven brought worry, fear, and a fresh sense of dread. It was on day twenty seven that they told us he had an infection.

Day twenty-nine was the second time we were told to say goodbye; the second time we said all the things we had already said, but with a sense of wonder at what could've been. What could he have done if he had lived? Who could he have been? And where could he have gone?