********************
Long thick lashes beneath swollen lids. Delicate peak at the center of the pale face. Thin, pink lips held partly open. It amazes me how so much beauty and solitude one face can hold.
I adoringly brush his entire body if only by my gaze. Sight shifts from his face to the weak, narrow shoulders that are only about as wide as his head, frail little arms and legs that both hold very little mass, loose skin covers his entire body. His red, long and bony digits form a tight fist. He will grow up to be a big man, this little guy. My Nathan.
I was never much an advocate of the faith, but just seeing this child before me, my belief in angels, heaven, God and all the higher beings is reiterated and established. Every time I look at him, I feel as if heaven’s gates are held ajar, if only to allow us a brief moment to share a love so pure. Basic and yet, so highly complicated for words. I have never witnessed how much love a heart can hold until I notice it reflected in my eyes as I watch him from behind these hard plastic walls.
I linger on the chest, watching its rise and fall with every labored breath. Labored. Yet still, peaceful.
Suddenly aware of the hissing sound from the respirator attached to the tubes that run up his nose and the cardiograph originating from the nodes attached to his chest, I am reminded of how I nearly lost him a few hours back. I gaze at the monitor and notice the steady readings. Calm is good.
I take everything in. The wee and frail body being supported by massive medical equipment, his peaceful countenance and the effortful breathing. His tightly clenched fists. Every second is a painful fight for his life. A burning war for my sanity.
I look at these vicious tubes and feel a strong desire to tear them from his body; smash these restrictive walls in one blind fit of rage and just hold him so close to my heart. Close enough for me to feel his pain and take them away. Hoping somehow, it could be me fighting for my life in there and not him. How can I just sit here in a healthy state when my son is dying in there? My God! How much more can one body take?
Logic takes the better half of me. Through gloved hand, I place my index finger inside the warmth of his little palm. His bony little digits instinctively close tightly around mine. I sense the love between us transcend the hard plastic enclosure. A small smile creeps across his face. He seems to tell me “Mom, hang in there. I’m going to be ok.” So I rub his fingers with my thumb as I watch my little soldier carry on. My heart captures a moment.
I watch him breathe. Calm. Deep. Fast. Frantic.
His grip tightens around my finger as I watch with great difficulty, how pain replaces his smile. More labored breaths. Mouth opens wide in a desperate plea for someone to take away his discomfort. I hear him, but I cannot do anything. I do not understand all these medical equipment. I do not know what to do! I cannot just sit here! “Somebody tell me what to do!”
Cardiogram readings----erratic. Various hurried footsteps draw near. Wheels squeak at the arrival of more equipment. Apart from the respirator’s constant hissing, there is total chaos.
Bodies run back and forth in sure directions. An order is given for me to be taken away. Strong pairs of hands clutch firmly at my arms, pulling me back. My son’s grip slips from me. This can’t be happening!
“Please Don’t! I want to be with him. Please… oh God, please…just let me hold him. HE NEEDS ME!” Although at this point, I don’t know who needs the other more. I try to wriggle free from their grasps, but my body seems to have lost recognition of all sense of movement. I have no other choice but to allow them to take me away.
I try to content myself with a glimpse of him from behind all these hurried bodies, but I had no luck. I can only afford to hear him cry. Crying is good. Please don’t stop Nate. Please cry. Please.
Cardiogram readings grow more frantic. An influx of medical jargons I cannot comprehend. Readings slow down to a trickle. Now orders are more forcibly given. A lot of things are happening all at the same time, they seem to pass me by in a blur. Then a last drop from the cardiogram. A last hiss from the respirator. A small tool falls sharply on a tin pan. And there is no more.
“WHERE IS HE?… Why’d he stop? Somebody please tell me he’s ok!”
I probe the nurses’ eyes for answers; they will not look at me. So I free myself from their grip to run towards him. I yank one nurse by the shoulders to make her face me. She looks down without a word. In one dazed motion, I find myself reunited with my son---- what is left of him. This fight is over. My little soldier’s face that once held tranquility amidst the pain----lifeless. Tears still mark his cheeks. Lips slowly draining of color. I never even got to know what color his eyes were.
He will never get to see his crib that I so diligently decorated, his first bike, his first birthday candle. Even his mom and dad. They finally let me hold him without the constraints of surgical gloves and incubator walls. It is upon feeling his light, still warm and limp body in my arms that I find myself lost in one blinding flash of pain.
I woke up with a start. Beads of sweat lace my forehead and chest. Heart raps wildly inside my chest. I clutch my blanket tightly around me. Beside me and to my right, a slow, rhythmic breathing. My husband’s. I start to breathe calmly. It’s just a dream.
After my eyes have adjusted to the darkness, I decided to hobble across the room to the crib and run my fingers along its smooth, newly painted edges. It has been two years.
From the faint yellow light that streams in from a distant lamppost, I can barely make out the pink trimmings that adorn its interiors. I feel around for one soft bootie and bring it closer to my face taking in every soft, powdery scent of it. In a few weeks, my daughter is going to be born and I have every intention of bringing her home. To this crib. I run a hand over my bulging stomach and sense relief as she tries to uncurl inside me. She’s coming home. Her big brother will see to it that she does.
But for now, this crib is empty. Nathan, our angel never made it here.
