As I sit at the end of my son’s bed as he lies curled up and in a deep, deep sleep that we can’t seem to wake him from. He seems to wake enough to take his medicine or go to the bathroom but then he drifts off to a place far away.
Last night he woke but he couldn’t sit up for very long. His blood pressure is so low that any prolonged sitting causes him to become faint and nauseous. Mitchell’s motor skills are significantly decreased. We were glad to have him eat last night but he was lethargic and could hardly maneuver his fork. Still he tried to maintain his independence and wanted to feed himself as much as possible. We helped a little, but he managed to feed himself on his own for most of the meal.
For all intents and purposes my son is gone. He is here. He is breathing, barely. But in many ways he is gone. I don’t know if we’ll have another meal or conversation or smile … and that breaks my heart. At the moment it feels like the weight of grief is being held in suspension by the hope of one more … of anything.
“Yesterday all Mitchell wanted to do was cuddle. All I wanted to do was freeze time.”
Last night, just before bedtime, I caught Mitchell's little brother Wyatt sitting by his bed and kissing his hand. Wyatt loves his older brother so much.
Love is such an interesting phenomenon. When we had our first child I thought to myself "I love this child so much, it is impossible for me to love another human more than this!" In fact, I often wondered if I even had the capacity to love another person because the circumference of my love was bursting at the seams. Then, my second child arrived. And I discovered that I didn't need to divide the love I felt for my first and share it with my second child. My love multiplied. And so it continued ... with each child my capacity to love increased exponentially. Oh, the arithmetic of family ... the arithmetic of God's plan.
Mitchell's health took a significant dive today.
We opened some of the packages that were sent to him and he smiled softly and perked up a little and then asked if he could lay down. He didn't last long. As we helped him lay down his arms and legs were floppy. He said to Natalie and I in a slow, slurry voice .... "I don't think I can survive." We both sat there stunned ... and quietly wept. Mitch all but passed out. After a few minutes, he started to come to and said "it's okay, Mom." As we sat in the quiet of our sorrow Natalie held Mitchell's hand and kissed it, bathing his hand with her tears and told him how much she loves him and that everything is okay. He softly smiled and nodded and drifted off to sleep.
I found it so interesting that Mitch, in all his own suffering would try to comfort and reassure his mom.
I wanted Natalie to have some alone time with her baby so I suggested she cuddle with him and comfort him while I left the room.
Our precious boy hangs from a tattered thread that is ready to snap ... and soon he will pass from this world to the next.