Nightmare

It happens almost every night now, and it has been this way for the last 11 months.

I don't even have to close my eyes anymore before it starts playing in my head.

It's almost like a movie, only I can smell the room, taste my own fear, and I know it's not just a dream.

One moment I'm laughing with the nurse, she's smiling at me and nodding her head. We're laughing about the monitor that goes on Kinley's foot, and how it's constantly moving and making the machine beep. It's been a false alarm so many times that I've almost become numb to the sound. I know that someone will come adjust it shortly and reset the machine and all will be fine.

Only this time the machine keeps beeping.

This time I watch the nurse eye the numbers on each screen and get quiet. I see her reach for medication and quietly ask a doctor to come take a look.

I watch the room slowly fill with doctors and nurses. In the 12 days of her life the only time there's been this many people in the room was on surgery day. Something isn't right and I'm on full alert.

Josh and I look at each other with fear and anxiety. Yesterday Kinley had one of her best days so far. They moved her to this private room and finally got the dreaded ECMO machine out of here. They don't anticipate her needing to go back on that machine again. Things are looking up, aren't they? We hold hands, as if that connection can give us the strength to keep fighting, to keep being strong for our girl.

One of the female doctors comes to talk to us, I can tell from the look on her face the news isn't good. She explains that Kinley isn't responding to the medicines like she has been, that they are trying to get her heart rate up, but that she's not liking what she's seeing.

The male doctor that I've been calling Sheldon (because I can't remember all their names, and he looks like the guy from Big Bang Theory) is trying to get her pacemaker to register, but no matter what he does it won't pick up.

Someone is on the phone with the surgeon, he's in the parking garage and he's trying his best to get up there in time...

Time is relative. I don't know how much time passed, I just know that it was like watching the room from outside my body. They pumped meds into my tiny baby, they scrambled around doing everything that they could think of.

Then the female doctor was back in front of us again, she was telling us that we may be asked to make a hard decision soon. She needed to know if we wanted them to try and get Kinley back on the life support machine (ECMO), but that we needed to know that it might not work this time. Her tiny heart just wasn't beating on it's own now, and they were manually giving her oxygen at this point.

At first we told her absolutely, do whatever it takes! Hurry! Save our baby! Everything seemed to kick into high gear then, everyone was moving things around the room, nurses were on phones calling for blood bags and equipment, the surgeon finally rushed into the room and began pumping Kinley's tiny heart manually, holding it in his fingers outside of her open chest.

I could hear myself screaming, "Oh God, Oh God. Is this it? Oh God." I leaned on Josh because I didn't know how much longer I could hold myself up. Someone asked me if I wanted to wait outside, but I declined. I needed to be with my baby.

I watched her face. Her tiny little face. I watched her change color and at some point I knew. I looked at her and I knew she was gone. Her little soul had left her body and I could feel it in every cell of my body.

I sobbed so hard. I couldn't watch them do anything else to her tiny body. I knew she was gone and I wanted her to have some peace. I wanted her body to have a rest. My voice was too small, I turned to Josh and I said, "She's gone. Oh God, She's gone. Make them stop. We need to make them stop."

His voice was so tormented and broken, but he managed what I couldn't and he told them to stop.

They all looked broken, but relieved. They knew what we knew, she was gone and nothing could save her. Her body had gone too long without a heart beat, no oxygen had been going to her body or her brain. Even if they'd been able to get the ECMO machine together, it was too late. Our sweet girl had fought so hard, but it wasn't enough. Her tiny body just couldn't fight anymore.

It's a little blurry at this point, I think I may have left my own body for a moment, I remember feeling my legs start to give. Josh and another person, (maybe the female doctor?) held me up on either side and someone brought a chair in behind me. I just cried. I cried like I'd never cried before.

They asked me if I wanted to hold her. I did.
They asked me if I wanted them to take all the wires and tubes away first. I did.


They cleared the room except for two nurses and they wrapped her up in a blanket and handed my baby to me. For only the second time ever, I held her without wires or tubes. She looked empty, her light gone. She felt so cold already. I kissed her head over and over and told her I loved her. My tears fell on her skin. I rocked her in my arms and prayed that she hadn't felt pain. That she knew we were there with her, that we were so proud of her, that she was never alone.

I watched my husband's heart break. I watched his torment, and I saw the guilt in his eyes. The same guilt mirrored in mine, we couldn't save her. I watched him hold her in his arms to say goodbye. We were wrecked. We'd never be the same again.

The surgeon cried with us. The nurses cried with us. One of our favorite ECMO tech's made a special trip up to see us and he sobbed beside us. Kinley touched so many people in that hospital in such a short time, so many people loved her.

Two of the nurses helped me make foot prints and hand prints. They took a small piece of her hair for me to keep. They were so gentle and patient with us. They told to me take as much time as I needed, but there would never be enough time.

Eventually it was time to go. I needed to go home, to hold my children. I needed to be the one to tell them. We would need each other now more than any time in our lives before.

That walk. I'll never forget that walk. Leaving my baby alone on the bed, knowing I'd never see her sweet face again. I'd never smell her magical baby smell, or hold her tiny hand in mine. I can't put into words the heartbreak, the utter grief and despair. Without Josh, without him holding me up, I don't think I would have made it.

This, this is what I dream each night. I relive the worst moment of my entire existence. It never gets any less real. It's like I'm still in that room, with the sounds, and the smells, and the feelings.

I can't escape it, because it's not a bad dream, it's reality, and to forget would be to forget a piece of my baby. There won't be any forgetting.