February 10, 2017 was simultaneously one of the best and hardest days of my entire life. And every year, from then on, I will relive that day. I will relive all of the hope and then sorrow. I will see those emotional last breaths as we snuggled our son. I will remember the heartbreak when we were told there was nothing more they could do. I will feel that little spark of joy and hope as we heard him take his first breath and the little cry that came out along with it. I will remember how physically exhausted I was from a night full of labor as we waited for them to cut that sweet boy out. I will remember the intense desire to close my eyes and escape the world for just a few moments and the equal tug to stay awake; to be sure not to miss a moment. I will remember the picture that the neonatal doctor sent me from George Mason’s NICU layette: 5 hours after he was born and still we hadn’t met him. Another hour later and a gracious and kind doctor sent us an out of focus picture. A picture with all of the tubes and monitors, of a son who was barely alive, but who’s ear folds were perfectly shaped just like his daddy’s. I will remember the long hallway from my hospital room down to the NICU. My nurse carefully pushing the wheelchair - as I couldn’t walk yet. I will remember the excitement and the terror as they open those NICU doors. Wondering how it would feel to see our son so helpless. Asking myself if we would be able to even touch him. I will remember calling my dad to tell him it was time to bring Audrey Nole to meet her brother. And to let him know that we would also be saying goodbye. I remember so vividly his voice on the other end of the phone. “I’m so sorry” I will remember hanging up and through the tears just saying FUCK; over and over and over again. Because when you’re about to say goodbye to your child, what else is there to say?
I will remember that long walk back to the NICU. This time in our private room. Down the hallway with the sickest of babies. I will remember how somber that hallway felt. How eery it was to be walking down to the very last room. Dimly lit, the only sounds coming from the various monitors that were hooked up to this baby that I had only spent a few hours with. I will remember sitting in the chair and waiting for the nurse to gently move that sweet boy from his bed to my arms. All of the tubes and cords and life lines carefully arranged so as not to pull and cause him more pain. I will remember holding Audrey Nole on the other side of my lap, letting her touch and feel her brother. Answering her questions and trying not to be scared. I will remember, and cherish, those brief moments with my two kids together. Where Audrey noticed none of the medical stuff, but cared more about his feet and how soft his skin was. I will forever be thankful for the nurse who quietly and without prompting picked up my camera and took as many pictures as the memory card would allow. The lighting was terrible and the pictures are mostly blurry, but they are treasures to Adam and myself. I will also remember how caring and loving my dear friend was as she watched over Audrey - the almost 2 year old who didn’t understand why everyone was sad. I’ve heard countless stories about them riding the escalator up and down and then again and again. I’m thankful for those escalators. I will remember watching my husband hold his first son. I will remember the tears that welled up as he examined and committed to memory all of the parts of this precious little boy. I will remember playing the song that was written him and the insane amount of tears that came as a result. I will remember feeding George Mason just a few drops of the colostrum that I had pumped for him.
I will never forget looking at Adam and knowing it was time to say goodbye. To give our sweet boy to Jesus. I will remember watching as the nurse and doctor gently removed all the tubes. How they delicately wrapped him up in that blue polka dot blanket and handed him back to me. I will remember how small he felt in my arms. How small I felt as his mama who couldn’t do anything to make him better. I remember standing in that room, with Adam, and just crying as we waited for his little heart to stop. I will remember that it was over an hour, when they told us it would be 15 minutes. I will remember the most darling little coughs - coughs that were actually his body falling him as he gasped for breath. I will remember silently telling Jesus that it was ok, He could take him now. I will remember the feeling of helplessness as the doctor listened for his heart. I will remember those emotions of wanting to hold him forever and also knowing he was no longer there. I will remember handing over his tiny little body to the nurse and looking at Adam with the most confused and naive face; wondering what happened now? Did we just go on with life? I will remember kissing Audrey goodnight as we walked back to the hospital room, telling her just how much I loved her. I will remember the conversation with my friend about needing to share our news. It was so important that I shared it right then. I will remember the fear of facing the text messages from caring friends and family, just wanting to know how things were going. I will remember lying down on that hospital bed, numb from the day. So exhausted I didn’t even feel the pain. Neither the physical nor the emotional. I will remember closing my eyes on that day, wondering what tomorrow would bring - what the rest of my life would bring - what that empty car ride home would bring.
Today, our sweet boy would have been 3 years old. And as I relive his day, I also have to plan a birthday celebration. It wasn’t all bad on that day. There wouldn’t be sorrow if there wasn’t first the joy of welcoming our son into the world. So Audrey wore her “special occasion” socks to school today, because it is her brother’s birthday. And we will spend the afternoon baking a cake - with yellow frosting, and probably sprinkles because she’s an almost 5 year old girl. We will gather around our dining room table tonight with a few friends and we will sing our loudest version of Happy Birthday; just to be sure George can hear us in heaven,
This is what tomorrow brought. This is our life. Equal parts joy and sorrow. Always together. Some days the joy feels bigger and more important than the sorrow. Some days, like today, we have to face them both equally. The tears that flow as I take myself back through all of the moments of his day and the laughter that will come as we gather around the cake. The bible verse of the day that popped up on my Bible app couldn’t have been more fitting for this day. Thank you Jesus for your care of the details. Happy Birthday, George Mason! We love you so!
“And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that having all sufficiency in all things at all times, you may abound in every good work.” - 2 Corinthians 9:8
