Random memories from last August

Over Saturday morning coffee, Mike and I exchanged our random memories and thoughts on the 54 hours of Ryan's life.

Side note: "Normal" people don't talk about things like this over coffee, do they?

54 hours isn't a long time - especially when referring to the length of a person's life - but as we talked, I was amazed at how many emotions, decisions, and actions were squeezed into that time. Everything happened so quickly, and yet so slowly.

Of all the memories we discussed, the one thing that struck both of us the hardest was how no one really explained the severity and life-threatening nature of Ryan's condition. All of the medical staff explained Ryan's treatments in their clinically stoic, almost robotic, manner without truly explaining what was wrong with his heart or how closely he was teetering on the edge of death. We always thought - since no one had mentioned to the contrary - that Ryan would eventually come home, even if that homecoming was delayed for several weeks or months by surgeries and extended hospital stays.

I never imagined he'd die, never to come home with us. I wasn't the least bit prepared for that outcome, even though I know it does unfortunately happen. If I had known - or had had an inkling that something was amiss - I wouldn't have taken his homecoming clothes to the hospital with me. So, instead, his homecoming clothes served as his funeral clothes - the only clothes I got to pick out for him to wear. The only clothes he ever wore.

The only way I knew just how seriously sick Ryan was, was when the attending doctor in the NICU asked if I wanted to hold Ryan one last time. Once the doctor asked me that, my worst fear had been confirmed and I knew that Ryan had mere minutes of life left in him. And, when the doctor turned to me, just moments after asking me if I wanted to hold Ryan, I didn't want to believe that there was nothing left that the doctors could do for my sweet baby. I truly thought they could fix him, regardless of the complexity of his condition, and they were giving up on him prematurely.

Of course, we knew the doctors weren't giving up on him; they didn't have anything left in their arsenal to help him. It was an exhaustive effort for everyone involved. And, Mike and I were trying to figure out how to go from pure elation at the birth of our baby boy to the indescribable grief at his passing just two days later.

But, despite the flurry of activity in the NICU during Ryan's last moments and our own confused emotions over what was happening, I was (and still am) thankful that our beautiful boy drifted off peacefully in my arms, with Mike embracing the two of us. That was our final moment as a family - a memory I can never change or forget - so I'm grateful that for as horrible as that moment was, at least the three of us were together so Ryan could feel the boundless love emanating from Mike and me - that same unending love that surrounded him his entire life.