The tests the doctors performed
on India didn’t take long but it did take some time to get the results back.
Within an hour the doctor came out of India’s room with blood on his
blouse. I didn’t know if India was alive or dead and the doctor showed no
emotion as he walked down the hallway to us. He came up to Veruca and me,
let out a sigh and said that the procedure was a success and India was
stable. The doctor told us that the operation hadn’t gone the way he’d
planned and India had crashed right in the middle of the procedure. This
was the cause of the mayhem we saw and why it took so long. The doctor
said that he’d taken the other IVs out and things should be smoother now.
Without any real discussion or
planning, Veruca and I began to create the best environment possible for our
little girl in this cold sterile place. We brought in a CD player and
dozens of CD’s. We put some very cute little dolls wherever we could find
room and put a hanging butterfly over India’s head. Either Veruca or I
were by India’s side twenty-four hours a day. We were always playing
music, talking, or reading her books. I now understand that Veruca and I
did all this because it was the only way that we could cope with our impossible
situation. We had to know that we were doing whatever we could to bring
some normalcy to India’s and our lives while in this critical care unit.
Family and friends, including
Bama, took turns sitting by India reading books out loud, talking, singing or
even playing games; anything so India could hear familiar voices and
sounds. Eventually, my little brother Tom took on the night duty. He
was a lifesaver for me during this experience. A plus for him was that one
of the night shift nurses was cute and I believe wanted to play doctor with
him; badly.
During our stay in the PICU, we
saw a lot of very sick children. None stayed even close to the length of
time India did. I noticed there was not a single family who so much as
stayed the night as their child was in intensive care. I was really
confused by this. The nurses told me that we were the anomaly, most
families don’t stick by their Child’s side the way we were doing.
Of all the children that were
in the PICU while we were there, there’s one I’ll never forget. He was a young
black boy, about 12 years old. He was a foster child that had been locked
in a closet for months. When they brought him in, he looked like a
concentration camp victim. He was awake, looking around and
communicating. His only family was the foster parents, who were now in
jail. He had no friends, he was all alone. This poor little boy was
in the PICU, all by himself, living in a world that is beyond my
comprehension. The only people who came to see this kid were two
incredible Mormons. They’d never met the boy, had no connection with
him. They only knew of him from the front-page-news of his
ordeal. They brought him food, sat by his side, and of all the things that
brought me to tears, they placed a little stuffed bear on his bed next to him
as if he were a baby.
Despite the hospital and Mormon
couple’s efforts, the boy died. I believe he passed away in part from what they
call “failure to thrive.” I’ve always hoped that the kindness of that
couple truly made his last days better. It was hard for me to tell, the
poor boy had been so abused. I’ve always also wondered if Karma took care
of the foster parents.
As time went on the nurses became worried about Veruca and I. We were
hardly sleeping, and eating was almost impossible. I believe Veruca agreed to
take a sedative at one point, but I was too afraid to. I couldn’t imagine
being put in a deep sleep just to wake up and find India’s room empty and
clean; her little body gone. To help us the nurses kept the room that
adjoined India’s open for Veruca and I. There was a sliding door that we
could keep open. This helped; Veruca and I would take turns napping with
the door open.
A few days after India’s tests
were performed, the doctors asked to meet with us. It was late in the day
and India hadn’t been doing so well. We’d still not slept much, we’d
hardly eaten, and our spirits were crushed. The worst part was that we’d
not been allowed to hold our daughter since we arrived at the PICU; it was
against regulations. Every bone in our bodies screamed to hold and comfort
India, and not being able to do so was torture.
When the doctors arrived, we
all sat down next to India and they started explaining the test results to
us. They said that India’s seizures had never stopped, even though
outwardly they’d seemed to. This was the worst case scenario
imaginable. They then went into some very confusing and intense conversation
about India and what was going to happen. It really wasn’t a conversation—Veruca
and I just sat there listening. These doctors were talking to us as if we
were doctors instead of tired, emotional, young parents. We didn’t understand a
word.
After the doctors left, the
nurse who’d been present asked us if we understood what had been
said. We’d become very close to this nurse, his name was Tony. Tony
sat us down again and told us that the doctors said that India wasn’t going to
make it. He said that they would come back tomorrow and ask us to make the
decision of keeping her on life support or not. He said that it was our
decision and not to rush into anything. Tony explained that the doctors
felt that India at this point, was already a vegetable.
Through my reliving this story
for you, the reader, I’ve often tried to express the smell, taste, look and
feel of the emotions we were going through. The sensation at this moment
I’m not going to even attempt to explain, it would be futile. Veruca and I just
sat there, too tired to cry, to stunned to talk, and physically unable to do
anything else. Tony the nurse told us that he’d be back at 11:00 pm at
shift change and he’d want to talk to us again; it was important. He left
us alone; we didn’t move a muscle.
The only thing I could think of
to do was borrow my father-in-law’s truck and drive with Veruca to my dad’s
grave. My father and his wife had been killed when I was a teen in a
balloon accident. He hadn’t been a very good father for the exception of the
last year of his life. Veruca and I drove to his grave, sat down and told
him that he owed me one. I said to my father’s tombstone that if there was
anything he could do for India, he needed to do it right now. Then we
drove straight back to the hospital.
Word of what the doctors had
told us spread quickly. Somebody mentioned that we should baptize India
before she passed. We weren’t religious but we wholeheartedly agreed that
India deserved this so we decided to have a ceremony in celebration of her
life. An old friend of ours by the name of Aaron Hendon agreed to perform
the ceremony. Aaron was a transplant to Albuquerque from the east
coast. Aaron was a Jewish bagel maker and owned a wildly successful bakery
and restaurant. He’d become an ordained minister from one of those ads in
the back of Rolling Stone Magazine. This made Aaron perfect for the
ceremony and I’ll always be grateful to him for his kindness and efforts.
When it was time, Aaron had all
of us, perhaps twelve family and friends, stand in a circle around India’s
bed. Everybody held hands while he said a few beautiful words. Aaron
then asked each person to talk about India. It was such a touching
ceremony and a very emotional scene. Every single person had beautiful things
to say about India. There was a ton of love and support in the room and
for the first time in weeks, laughter. In the middle of it all was my
baby, lying there peacefully.
After our ceremony was done and
everybody had gone home, Tony the nurse arrived. He had told us earlier in
the day that he wanted to meet with us at shift change and it was
important. Tony walked in the room and asked Veruca to sit in a chair
next to India. He walked back to the hallway, looked both ways, and then
shut the door. He turned around and told us a story. He said that at
his last hospital, they had a policy just like this one now: a child on life
support could not be held by the parents. He then said to us that his
biggest regret in his entire career was when he had a family in a similar
situation as ours. He followed hospital procedure and didn’t let the
parents hold their child before she died. He explained that he’d never
make that mistake again, even if it meant his job.
We knew what Tony was about to
do. Veruca and I began crying, it was a truly bittersweet moment. We
were so happy that we were about to hold our daughter after all this
time. But this was going to be the last time we’d ever hold our child
while she was alive. One of the most emotional moments in my life was when
Tony ever-so-gently picked up India, with all her monitor lines and life
support tubes intact, and placed her into Veruca’s lap. I stood there
crying. But my tears were happy tears. Veruca was glowing again the
way she did the very first time she held India. Veruca’s eyes were
sparkling and her cheeks were red. Tears were falling down her face but
they t looked like my own, happy tears. Veruca began talking to India in
such a sweet voice that only mothers can do. It was one of the most
beautiful sights I’ve ever seen.
Tony then told me it was my
turn. I sat in the chair and Tony placed India in my lap. It was a beautiful
moment but it became very painful to let her go. I did not want my moment with
India to end. I could feel the warmth of her skin and appreciated every breath
she took. I don’t know if I’ve ever been as present in a moment in my life as I
was then. I believe many people spend their entire lives meditating to reach
the point I was at. I reluctantly let Tony take India back to her
bed. I can’t even begin to attempt to explain what it’s like to know that
you’re holding your child for the last time.
That night, I fell asleep
sitting next to India with my head on her bed, holding her hand. I had fallen
into a deep, exhausted sleep. When I awoke, it was early morning and we were
all alone. I sat there for a moment and soaked in all that had happened
the day before. The heart monitor and ventilator were making their usual
noises and I could hear the nurses outside in the hallway. I stood up and
began to rub India’s little head, wondering if this was going to be her last
day with us. I leaned over, kissed her cheek and told her I loved her with
all my heart. I didn’t know if she could hear me or feel my presence. The
doctor had used the word vegetable so maybe her brain was already gone.
Before India’s hospitalization,
I’d often talk to her in a very silly, high-pitched voice. I’d use this
voice when I’d talk to my kitties but when India first heard me doing this
she’d smiled the biggest smile ever. So I used this voice often when we’d play;
she loved it. I started to talk to India in the silly voice now. I knew I was
trying to reach into the past, before India’s seizures destroyed her little
body. I wanted again to be the proud and happy father with the healthy glowing
baby. I began to cry as I stood over her ravaged body. All I could squeak
out in my silly voice was “I love you baby girl, please come back.” I’d
finally realized what the doctors had said the day before and it was having its
full impact on me now. My lips were on India’s forehead as I cried and
repeating “I love you baby girl, please come back.”
After a few minutes, I lifted
my head just above India’s. Her little face was horribly swollen. The
tip of her tongue was shriveled, dark brown, and cracked from lack of
moisture. Her eyelids had a crust on them and her skin was slightly grey. But
she was my child, I saw a beautiful little girl with bright eyes who made the
sweetest little noises; she was perfect.
By now Tony had come in to
check on India. As I began to move out of his way, I leaned over, kissed
her cheek, and told India one last time in the silly voice that I loved her. As
I stood up, I didn’t believe what I thought I saw out of the corner of my eye.
I turned back once more and said again that I loved her in my silly
voice. It happened again; I wasn’t seeing things. India, with her cheeks
trembling, managed to give me a tiny smile. I was dumbfounded, literally
dumbfounded. I looked up at Tony for confirmation of what I’d just seen.
He stood there motionless, staring at India, equally as stunned. Tony cracked a
smile and said “I’ll be damned.” He asked me to make my voice again. Once
more, my little girl’s cheeks trembled as she pulled back a smile. I began
sobbing; the happiest tears of my life were flowing down my cheeks onto India’s
face as I kissed her again and again. Her smiles didn’t stop and haven’t to
this day.
