Goodnight, Greyson.
I have shared this same post on my personal Facebook page in the past, and continue to share it every year on the anniversary of my son’s passing. I’m sharing it here in hopes of reaching a broader audience, including those who might have also lost a child. If that is the case, please know that I am in your corner. I see you. I GET you. And I get your grieving process.
February 9, 2020
One year ago tonight I sat in a hospital room talking to my sister Ellen and friend Heather about how thrilled I was to see the patient across the way doing so well - an adult man, father of two young boys. I’d watched emergencies happen multiple times at his doorway, his mother and wife trading off for months to help care for him, and watched every day as his medical team escorted him around the hallways helping him walk again. We never met, but I talked to them so proudly about how excited I was that he was doing so well. And it was in that moment that my own little boy took his very last breathe in my lap.
Anne was our AM shift nurse that day, completely by choice. At noon, she and Dr. Ryan came in and disconnected everything that ever held us back from being a regular mom and baby. That became the first time in his 94 days that I was able to hold Greyson freely without the help of a nurse lifting him into my lap. It was the only day I was ever able to stand up, pick up my son, and carry him around as I pleased.
When everything was disconnected the Dr. explained that he might last 30min or it could be longer. To all of our surprise Greyson stayed with us, breathing on his own, for 9 hours and 45 min. He stayed so long that a shift change occurred and Emma (our favorite night nurse) came on. We had a revolving door of family and friends visit that day, some of whom I hadn’t seen in a long time and who were coming to meet my cub for the very first time. By the time Emma came on shift most everyone else had gone home, thinking they’d come back in the morning to see him again.
Alissa also came that day when the crowds had died down and took the very best set of everlasting photos I’ll ever own. She captured my little boy just being a regular little boy. There’s nothing (other than Greyson himself) more important to me than those pictures.
At 9:45pm Dr. Ryan listened to my little boy’s heart - the source of this entire whirlwind - and simply said, “Goodnight, Greyson.” I screamed and howled for I don’t know how long and everyone just stood by our bedside and let me do it. I remember squeezing my baby as tight as I could and stared at the clock, thinking to myself, “This will forever be as bad as life gets.” And from that moment on I learned not to sweat the small stuff because holding my child’s lifeless body is THE. ABSOLUTE. WORST. THING. that will ever happen in my lifetime. And I am surviving it.
I lay in that bed cradling my little boy for 3 hours after he was gone. Never in a million years could anyone have convinced me that I’d ever touch, much less hold and kiss, a dead body. But in that moment I simply couldn’t let go. He was still my same sweet little Squirrel.
When I was ready to let go Emma brought in two bins of warm water and bathing supplies, and asked me if I’d like to give him a bath. I’d never even bathed my own son until then. I carefully cleaned him as if he were a porcelain doll, dried him off, then covered him in a clean diaper (he always HATED a speck of wet in his diaper), and dressed him from head to toe in little striped socks, tiny cotton pants, a grey t-shirt that read: Happy Little and Loved, and a white hoodie with teddy bear ears. Then I pulled back the blankets and tucked him into bed. I kissed his tiny purple lips and whispered, “Angels will watch over you and Mommy will come check on you later.”
An enormous piece of me died with him that day. Maybe some good parts, but mostly the bad. Whatever it was I’m different now. And I wouldn’t be who I am today if it hadn’t been for that perfect little soul.
Thank you, Greyson, for choosing me to be your mom and for giving me the months, weeks, days, and final hours that you did. I know it was hard and it hurt at times, but you made me so very proud. I love you, son.
