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Five years ago I held my 8 week old daughter as she took her last breath.
She was very sick, and never made it home from the hospital. My memory of her last day is so vivid, and when I take the time to think about it, my heart aches as if it were yesterday.
Chloe had been on a ventilator in the NICU and was deteriorating. The plan was to have her transported home after the Fourth of July
holiday and basically spend her last day/hours with her at home. After losing Sydney and Joshua the year before I did not want to
leave the hospital with empty arms again. But there was too much red tape to get her home within a few days, and I knew she was very
sick and uncomfortable.
After being in the NICU for 8 weeks, we had come to know her caregivers pretty well. On Friday, July 1, 2005 her neonatologist, respiratory therapist and nicu nurse helped us to take her for a walk outside in our stroller. They followed with an oxygen tank as the respiratory therapist walked along side, giving her breaths with a manual bag. My family and I each took turns pushing the stroller in the hospital courtyard for about an hour. We took pictures and it was comforting to feel her soft skin
warmed by the sun. We were then able to take her up in the elevator to a meeting room/living type room with a sofa and chairs and tall windows. Her endotrachial tube was removed and I held her close and rocked her for the first time, unencumbered by tubes or wires. I read her
Good Night Moon, then walked with her over to the tall windows. I saw two birds and knew they were Joshua and Sydney waiting for her. She was finally at peace.
I bathed her and dressed her and held her for a long time. I had made arrangements with the funeral home prior to, because I couldn't
bear the thought of her being brought down to the basement of the hospital - alone. But I was not prepared for the arrival of the
woman who was to take her. She was dressed in a long black trenchcoat, carrying what looked like a violin case - a box with a handle.
There was no way I was going to let her put my baby in that case and carry her away. I insisted on swaddlling her and carrying her out
of the hospital myself. I can recall the silent walk to the elevator and down the long corridors leading to the exit. My supportive
family surrounding us and following us outside to the bright, late afternoon sun that marks the beginning of summer. Down the hard concrete steps and onto the cracked, gray sidewalk we continued. The lump in my throat growing with each small step.
We made it outside to the street where the woman dressed in black had parked her car. This is the moment where I completely lost it. I just couldn't let her go. After a minute, Brian took her gently from me - my back to the car. I never turned around.
Time goes by, but the heart always remembers.
Thanks for reading and thinking about Chloe for a moment today.
Lauren
She was very sick, and never made it home from the hospital. My memory of her last day is so vivid, and when I take the time to think about it, my heart aches as if it were yesterday.
Chloe had been on a ventilator in the NICU and was deteriorating. The plan was to have her transported home after the Fourth of July
holiday and basically spend her last day/hours with her at home. After losing Sydney and Joshua the year before I did not want to
leave the hospital with empty arms again. But there was too much red tape to get her home within a few days, and I knew she was very
sick and uncomfortable.
After being in the NICU for 8 weeks, we had come to know her caregivers pretty well. On Friday, July 1, 2005 her neonatologist, respiratory therapist and nicu nurse helped us to take her for a walk outside in our stroller. They followed with an oxygen tank as the respiratory therapist walked along side, giving her breaths with a manual bag. My family and I each took turns pushing the stroller in the hospital courtyard for about an hour. We took pictures and it was comforting to feel her soft skin
warmed by the sun. We were then able to take her up in the elevator to a meeting room/living type room with a sofa and chairs and tall windows. Her endotrachial tube was removed and I held her close and rocked her for the first time, unencumbered by tubes or wires. I read her
Good Night Moon, then walked with her over to the tall windows. I saw two birds and knew they were Joshua and Sydney waiting for her. She was finally at peace.
I bathed her and dressed her and held her for a long time. I had made arrangements with the funeral home prior to, because I couldn't
bear the thought of her being brought down to the basement of the hospital - alone. But I was not prepared for the arrival of the
woman who was to take her. She was dressed in a long black trenchcoat, carrying what looked like a violin case - a box with a handle.
There was no way I was going to let her put my baby in that case and carry her away. I insisted on swaddlling her and carrying her out
of the hospital myself. I can recall the silent walk to the elevator and down the long corridors leading to the exit. My supportive
family surrounding us and following us outside to the bright, late afternoon sun that marks the beginning of summer. Down the hard concrete steps and onto the cracked, gray sidewalk we continued. The lump in my throat growing with each small step.
We made it outside to the street where the woman dressed in black had parked her car. This is the moment where I completely lost it. I just couldn't let her go. After a minute, Brian took her gently from me - my back to the car. I never turned around.
Time goes by, but the heart always remembers.
Thanks for reading and thinking about Chloe for a moment today.
Lauren
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