|
|
|
|
One of the things I loved most about my children was their excitement at the approach of a new day. It was a pleasant surprise to me that from the time they were infants, my children would awaken, look around and smile at me with a look that said, "Wow! It's all still here, Great! Let's go!" I envied them. For me, a mother of three, mornings were trying. . . to say the least. My husband worked nights so I often felt a bit like a single parent, especially in the mornings. And it was no help that my job was located 40 miles north. Even the trip to the day care was twelve miles of winding country roads. It was especially exciting that particular Monday morning because our family had splurged over the weekend and purchased a nearly new Chevy Astro van. Gray on the outside, beautiful blue on the inside with tinted windows and a seat for every child! My four-year-old son clamored to be belted into the "way back" seat nearest the back door, while my two-year old settled into her toddler seat just behind mom, and I fitted baby Christy into her infant seat facing the rear in the passenger side captain's chair. The older kids were marveling at the pretty van, the cup holders, secret compartments, and the room! After our Honda Civic, this was luxurious. I smiled at the kids' excitement, noticing that even the baby seemed taken by all the blue surroundings, cooing and smiling at everything. "Blue", I told her, "that's blue, baby". I remembered that older sister was speaking in complete sentences by a year and wondered if this child might be as advanced. Smugly, I thought, "Of course she is . . . we only make smart, beautiful, cuddly babies in this family!" I smiled and cooed back at her all the way to town. Unloading the children at the in-home day care I used was always a process. Diaper bags, and favorite toys, infant seat, and special snacks . . .one of the girls from the daycare always ran out to help me with the baby. Jodi loved babies, and we all loved Jodi. Though nearly nine years old, Jodi was affected by a combination of developmental disabilities which left her functioning at about the level of a three year old. She was adorable and enthusiastic, and all the children loved her and she loved them. "Mrs. Campbell, Mrs. Campbell, you got the baby, can I help? Huh? Can I help? Can I carry her bag, huh?" The most efficient way to deal with Jodi's overflowing enthusiasm was to allow her to help, and in all honesty, I needed the extra hands. Getting settled at Nancy's day care was as easy as breathing air. The children were obviously comfortable and contented as they clambered up to the breakfast bar for the morning meal, while the early arrivals were gathered by the bay window to announce the appearance of Josh's mom, or Katie's car, or "oh look, Graham brought his grandpa today!". I kissed my children (and a couple others, in recollection) and dashed out the door waving to a mass of pudgy little fingers and hands. It was a sunny day and for April in Washington - that is saying something. I don't remember what work I did in particular that Monday, nothing stands out in my memory. It was normal. That was the part that struck me later - it was just normal. It was Monday, and in our office of five, we rotated phone duty - Monday was my day. I remember jotting the time, 4:25 on my pink "While You Were Out" pad as I answered the phone. But instead of an inquiring voice requesting informational material from our office, I recognized the voice immediately as Nancy, "This is an emergency, please let me speak to Deane Campbell." I remember thinking stupidly that I had answered phone with " . . .this is Deane", and wondered why she didn't hear me. I soon found out. "Deane, honey, Christy isn't breathing, I just put her down for a second to go warm her bottle, and when I came back I couldn't wake her up..." I interrupted her immediately with a shouted, "NO! . . . Nancy, have you called 911?!", thinking irrationally, that she had dialed me up first. But she continued on without hesitation, ". . . yes, they're here now, they've been here about two minutes, they are working on her, they've started CPR, uh they gave her a shot, no that's an IV line . . .". From this point on, my memory is hazy, but I remember her describing the procedures the firemen were performing, I remember asking repeatedly "Has she started breathing, yet?" and finally, I remember my supervisor Cheryl coming over and taking the phone from me, getting information regarding to which hospital they were headed and hanging up the phone. Cheryl sat next to me, put her arm around my shoulders, and said a quick prayer for me and the baby. I realized I needed to drive to the hospital, nearly forty miles away, and some part of me recognized I might not be able to drive there safely. Always an aggressive driver, I worried aloud that I might drive too fast and I didn't know if I could handle the speed in my new van. Cheryl volunteered to drive me to the hospital and I gathered up my coat and got in her car. My memory of that trip is vague . . . flashes of stilted conversation and me thinking I should be making conversation, but I didn't, I just rode in silence. All I could think of was that Christy was dead. I knew the EMTs had worked on her for nearly ten minutes by the time I hung up the phone and she still wasn't breathing. In my mind, that was an absolute, she was dead. I had no hope of finding her alive, and my prayers to God were that He give me strength to handle this, and that He please not leave me with a baby who was brain damaged. I will always be grateful to Cheryl for driving me to the hospital. A mom herself, she was obviously scared, worried and hurting for me, but that was not all. Cheryl doesn't drive. Oh she can drive, and when forced to, she will drive herself the two or three miles to work . . . but 9 days out of 10 Cheryl arrived at work safely ensconced on the passenger side of her husband's Buick. No long trips, no freeway excursions, and certainly no high speed trips on a road she didn't know, looking for the exit to a hospital she had never visited. I remember clearly looking over and noting that she was traveling at about 15 miles over the freeway limit. Even with my brain dulled by fear and the horror at what was happening to me, I was thinking what an accomplishment that was for her. Cheryl pulled up in front of the double doors, and I jumped out without saying anything to her. I was focused on getting to my baby, and was attempting to prepare myself for the worst news. I stopped briefly at the information desk, gave my name and asked (demanded) where my baby was. Irritated that the woman behind the counter was going to make me wait for someone to come out, I pushed on through to the emergency room, determined to find a doctor who could tell me where my baby was, now. For a brief moment, I felt a little more powerful ...I was going to find my baby, I was not going to sit and wait, I had a task, a destination . . .and then I saw the face of my pediatrician through the window of a closed procedure room. There were others gathered around her, heads low, obviously concentrating on something (someone) below the level of the window. But Doctor Anita looked up just then and saw me standing outside the door. I stopped. I couldn't go in there. Not just because I wasn't sure if it was an examination room, or an operating room, or whatever. For some reason, I had this vague notion one needed to be "sterile" to gain entrance (after all, my experience with hospitals was pretty much limited to sprained ankles and what I have seen on General Hospital). Worse, I didn't want to see my baby, not that way, not sprawled out on an adult sized gurney, all limp and lifeless. So I stood there and stared back at Dr. Anita. At some point, I felt myself being pulled by a little nurse. That is all I can remember about her - she was just a tiny thing and she was pulling on my arm. We ended up in a closet, filled with vials and funny shaped bottles and in the back of my mind, I realized it was the drug closet. Another place that was "out of bounds". My mind kept focusing on that, I was NOT supposed to be there, and that very fact was written in three inch high letters across the door AUTHORIZED EMPLOYEES ONLY. I was not authorized, therefore, I did not belong. Just as I was thinking I needed to go home, another nurse came in to ask me how to reach my husband, my mother and my father... My husband! - oh Lord, he was at work and even after six years I had never bothered to memorize the number. The little nurse assured me that it was ok, just tell her the name of the company. I felt incredibly stupid. I could not remember . . . I knew how to get there, it was a mill, you know on Industrial Way, but not the BIG mill on Industrial Way, the one next door. My frustration at not being able to remember how to contact my husband only intensified my fear and desperation. I was sobbing uncontrollably, now. God! My baby was dying and I couldn't think of how to call my husband. I did remember mom was taking a class at the college and dad was playing bingo at the Eagles hall. How stupid! . . . I could remember obscure stuff like that, but couldn't think of the name of my husband's employer. Then, Dr. Anita was sitting by me in the now very crowded drug closet. She made me look at her and told me in her very no-nonsense way that I needed to pull it together, I had two other children at home who needed me and depended upon me and I could NOT fall apart. Dr. Anita explained to me that CPR was still being performed, but that we couldn't continue. I started to panic at the thought that she would be asking me to give the order to stop the CPR, but she reassured me this was something she would decide. Dr. Anita went on to mention SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, sometimes called Crib Death. I remember her saying something about it having been around for centuries, it was even mentioned in the Bible. But at the time, most of what she was telling me went right over my head. My mom arrived and immediately began to beseech the nurses to give me something, to just "knock her out" . . . The nurses calmed her down while I was talking to the doctor. Eleven years later, I understand better my mother's reaction. Watching your child grieve for her child must be heart-wrenching. The nurse brought my baby in a few minutes later. Swaddled in a soft blanket, my sweet, chubby baby was back in my arms. In spite of the crowd in the drug closet, they somehow got me into a wheelchair and wheeled us into a private office. Cheryl arrived then, she had parked the car and had been waiting in the administration area, but no one ever came to get her, so she sought me out. She shared with me later the shock of seeing me holding my obviously deceased baby. My insistence that she was so beautiful, so pretty, helped her to see beyond the discoloration of death as we shared that very private moment. My old dad arrived then, and I had never seen him so upset, not even when he lost his own parents. He couldn't stay in the room with us and had to leave. Mom told me later he confided that Christy's death and funeral were the hardest things he ever experienced. This from a World War II veteran who had seen death in so many other forms. Finally, after nearly two hours, the staff located my husband. When he walked into the room and saw me holding our dead baby, I watched his heart break right before my eyes. No one had told him any details, and by then a minister had been called. The minister tried to comfort Rob, but to small avail, he didn't seem to have any words to ease our pain. I asked him to baptize our child, which he did and it brought us some comfort. I felt hands massaging my shoulders as we sat and tearfully listened to the minister pray for our child. When I looked up to acknowledge the touch, I recognized my friend Jacquie, a nurse who worked at the hospital; she had been listening to staff gossip and realized the baby was ours. Jacquie was a supervisory nurse who explained that due to the "unknown" nature of Christy's death (which could not be confirmed until after an autopsy), we could not donate any organs other than her eyes. But Jacquie brushed Christy's hair and dressed her in a fresh night shirt. She promised to take care of our baby until Christy was released to the funeral home. I handed the baby to my husband for his last goodbye . . .forever will I remember the heartbreaking look on his face, his tear filled eyes, his soft voice asking over and over what happened . . .how could this happen. Jacquie explained that the doctor believed the baby had died from Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, but I knew that wasn't really what my husband was asking. What he and I really needed to know wasn't so much what had happened to our beautiful, wonderful child, but why. *** Eleven years have passed since that Monday in April, when I cooed and laughed with our little Christy. My four-year old son who clamored for the "way-back" seat in the van is now nearly 16 and clamoring for a van of his own. The little two-year old who worried about what to eat for breakfast is a beautiful, budding 13-year old young lady. But an empty space remains, in our family and in our hearts. If you are a parent who has recently lost a baby, I urge you to visit the SIDS network at http://sids-network.org/ ****************************** |
