Visting Sacred Spaces

As I have mentioned in former blog posts, I have been struggling to return to Oliver's final days. They are dominated by such suffering and pain. And my own feelings of failure as his mother and advocate. When I write the word "failure" it is not my attempt to manipulate all of you to console me with words of encouragement. It is an accurate word which describes my perception.

I am learning that some people who have to make life and death choices struggle with guilt. It is normal and needs to be acknowledged. Intellectually, I know that I did everything possible to keep Oliver comfortable in his final weeks. However all I did was not enough. His ending was not like Waverly's. And because of that, I have been resisting revisiting those precious moments in time.

I meet with a grief therapist regularly and we have been working on getting past the mental block and remembering. Each time a memory would flash before my eyes, a panic attack would ensue. I have been writing Oliver's death story as a way to frame my memories. People who were by our side in those final days have also been contributing their own thoughts and memories, so I can fill in gaps.

One of the things Matt and I have been wanting to do since Oliver died was to return to the Adler Center. As incomprehensible as it sounds, returning to the space where Oliver died felt like a necessary step in my grief journey. When we entered those doors on the early afternoon of Tuesday December 4th, I had no idea what the next few moments held. But I knew that I would not be leaving with my son. As the EMTs pushed Oliver's gurney into room 106, a team of staff surrounded him. I backed up and allowed these strangers to encircle my boy. I spoke with the doctor about our concerns - Oliver was in pain and in our opinion under medicated. He agreed and promised to remedy the situation.

Over the next few hours, Oliver's angel of a nurse brought comfort to our entire family. She was gentle, knowing that each touch to Oliver's body solicited a wincing response. She worked diligently to bring his 106 degree fever down. She repositioned his fragile body. She spoke sweetly. She put a hand on our backs as we wept over our beautiful son. Within a few hours of her care, Oliver relaxed and finally looked peaceful.

I remember our nurse leaving her shift around 11:00 pm. Oliver's breathing had changed and we all knew he had mere hours left. I remember her goodbye. Her arms around us. She knew. We knew. We would not be there when she returned later the next morning.

Yet as she departed her shift, she did her job so beautifully. Room 106 was now dimly lit, with flickering faux candles, flowers, family pictures. Oliver was comfortable with pillows and stuffed animals surrounded his withering frame. Chaos had turned to calm.

We visited the Adler Center last night with a bouquet of flowers and a note in hand. We had called ahead to confirm that our special nurse was working and would have a moment to spend with us. We found her and she remembered us. She remembered my Oliver and the joy that brought to my heart was overwhelming. We hugged and tears were shed. We thanked her for taking over in the midst of crisis and allowing Matt and I to just be mommy and daddy.