We live on the wrong side of town. For us, we live on the worst side of town. Our street is safe and quiet. Our neighbors are friendly and helpful, and they look out for our girls. Maddy and Abbey can ride their bikes safely. Edison is practically our backyard, so in a few years the girls can walk to and from school. We have a large yard, and a great house.
Our house is a few blocks from the hospital. Our house is on the flight path of every single helicopter that flies in and out of the damn hospital. I hate that sound. It reminds me every time I hear it. It reminds me that Izzy flew in one. That by the time she was in the helicopter, she was already brain dead. It reminds me that for the last few moments that she may have had any awareness at all she was alone, strapped down to a gurney with nothing familiar around her but her blanket.
I remember driving to Peoria as fast as I felt safe, but not half as fast as I wanted to. I remember that I was worried that she wouldn't grow up having a normal life. That she wouldn't be able to do all the things her sisters do. That she'd always feel left out or inferior because she was different that them. I feel stupid and petty that I was worried about something so dumb. I feel stupid for not being worried that she would live. It never crossed my mind. Not once, not ever. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
I don't think I'll ever forget how I felt that day. The helplessness and panic. I don't know that I want to. It was a valuable lesson learned. I will never once take our health or our lives for granted. What I have within the four walls of this house is the most important part of my entire life. We are all healthy and breathing, and that alone is enough to fill up an entire year of thankfulness. I won't ever forget that. The helicopter reminds me.
Our house is a few blocks from the hospital. Our house is on the flight path of every single helicopter that flies in and out of the damn hospital. I hate that sound. It reminds me every time I hear it. It reminds me that Izzy flew in one. That by the time she was in the helicopter, she was already brain dead. It reminds me that for the last few moments that she may have had any awareness at all she was alone, strapped down to a gurney with nothing familiar around her but her blanket.
I remember driving to Peoria as fast as I felt safe, but not half as fast as I wanted to. I remember that I was worried that she wouldn't grow up having a normal life. That she wouldn't be able to do all the things her sisters do. That she'd always feel left out or inferior because she was different that them. I feel stupid and petty that I was worried about something so dumb. I feel stupid for not being worried that she would live. It never crossed my mind. Not once, not ever. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
I don't think I'll ever forget how I felt that day. The helplessness and panic. I don't know that I want to. It was a valuable lesson learned. I will never once take our health or our lives for granted. What I have within the four walls of this house is the most important part of my entire life. We are all healthy and breathing, and that alone is enough to fill up an entire year of thankfulness. I won't ever forget that. The helicopter reminds me.
I feel on some level like I understand your feelings of the helicopter. Everytime we hear it come in our out I always stop to think of the night we put Masyn on it. While we had a much happier outcome the feelings of helplessness and panic are there.
ReplyDeleteLove ya,
Holly
My son never had a helicopter ride, and we knew his condition before he was born...but I can totally relate the feeling like an idiot about the concerns beforehand. I always knew I'd NEVER terminate if they told me the baby had Down's or something like that, but it did make me sad to think that he/she wouldn't be treated the same as others, etc. Or what if I found out that my baby would have a debilitating disorder and would live his life in a wheel chair? I literally cried at the THOUGHT...just the thought. Only to go to the anatomy scan and find out that he had a 0% chance of survival. I think our brains must have been protecting us. And again, it goes back to the taboo of infant death...people refuse to talk about it so we don't think it can happen to us either.
ReplyDeleteI hope you can enjoy Thanksgiving this year. We still need to *find* reasons to be thankful through our grief. (My son was born and passed on Thanksgiving day last year.)
Take care,
Brittany Clark