We cried and cried ...diary of a grieving mother
T he beginning of Sunday felt easy. We were told we could bring any food we wanted into Felix’s little room, so we went out to grab all of the things we used to get and put together a great picnic of treats. Then we sat on his bed and had our last family picnic. We’d done them a lot with Felix. Rory was too big to fit on the bed with Felix, so he sat on a chair at his side. I’d made a home sitting at the bottom of his bed, of course. The nurse saw us getting food out and poured more of his liquid food into his feeding tube so we’d all be eating together. They’re awesome like that. And that’s really how we spent most of the day. Laughing and talking with him. We’d decided that we were going to do his night-time routine. We were going to treat this as a lazy Sunday, then get him ready for bed. That made our time 8pm. His usual bedtime. When the time got close the nurses brought in some washbasins and we gave him a bath and got him changed into his pyjamas. He looks a bit puffy in the picture, top right, but it’s because of the medication he was on. He isn’t crying, don’t worry. It was a gel they put on to stop his eyes feeling uncomfortable. That’s the last picture I have of him. I put my phone away after that and we got into bed with him. Me on the left, Rory on the right. While at my house I’d rediscovered a book that my own mama had got him for Christmas. The book with no pictures. The point of it is that as the adult narrating the book, you’re
under its control. Whatever it says you have to say, in all of the ways it says you say it. We thought it was perfect. We took turns reading each page, and ended up laughing at all of the silly stuff we were to say. Once we finished the book we put it down, placed his hand between ours and held it on top of his chest. We just lay there silently for ages. Like we were pretending that the next part wasn’t about to happen. A nurse quietly opened the door to make sure we were OK before apologising and closing it again. We stopped her and said we’d stay there forever if we could. Then everyone who’d been waiting patiently outside began to come in. The walls of the room were glass and to avoid crowding us a few doctors stood behind us to check the monitors through the glass. Our favourite doctor came in, gave us a sad smile, and sat on the left of the bed. Rory and I sat on the right holding Felix’s hand. The monitors were turned away from us and the doctors outside of the room started watching them. Then the ventilation was removed. In order for his organs to be removed, Felix had to have a cardiac death. And we were going to be there. I suddenly realised this and I can’t even begin to describe the emotions I felt. I’d previously asked what could happen during Felix being removed from ventilation, whether his reactions would take over and he’d fight to breathe etc. We were told this could happen. It didn’t. I looked up at the doctor, who had a stethoscope to Felix’s chest, and quietly said: “The lack of fight is saying a lot.” I can’t remember if he said anything, I think he said yes, but he nodded. Felix’s left wrist had an arterial line in it, the same hand I was holding, and I realised that there was a small bit of blood still in the line that moved to his heartbeat. I watched it unblinkingly as it slowed down, and then our favourite doctor whispered that he was gone. He quietly left the room to get quickly changed for theatre and Rory and I cried like hurt animals. We had no reason not to cry next to him any more, and we certainly didn’t hold back. When the doctor returned we knew we had a small window before endangering his organs and we didn’t want to waste any precious time. One of us said: “Go make him a hero.” I think it was me, but I can’t be sure. Neither of us were really there. He picked him up and carried him carefully away.