Child death delegate

My club grew today. My club is always growing. But this time I knew the parents before they crossed the threshold into the life of "after". 

We run in some of the same circles, our kids have been in youth together, we have volunteered together. I know this family; I know their daughter. 

It just sucks, plain and simple. And I have all the complicated feelings. Thanks, grief. 

I got to see my new club members at the hospital yesterday before they were officially club members. I got to see their daughter while she still had blood pumping through her veins, while there was still air in her lungs. She had been declared brain dead the day before. But her body was still alive. She was warm and soft. And just as precious as every other day of the 15 years she spent on this earth. 

Visiting a family whose child is critically ill or on death's door can be sticky for me. I often feel I am a representation of death and therefore hesitate to make contact. As though I am a delegate for the angel of death. While this is untrue, the fact remains that I do represent child death. It would be completely understandable for a family facing the worst to not want to see or hear from me. So I struggle to say or do anything until after. 

These friends were gracious. I happened to have a meeting at the hospital and before I left I inquired with the chaplain to see if this family was open to me coming by. I didn't want to miss an opportunity to connect, but I also didn't want to force myself into anyone's private space. They were incredibly generous and welcoming. Sharing hugs and being in their daughter's room was sacred. Seeing all of the IV pumps, tubes, and machines, hearing the beeping alarm of a finicky pump and the loud whooshing of air forcing pressure into her lungs was familiar. It was a different place than I had spent the last few months of Eli's life, but the scenery was the same. 

It would be expected for me to be uncomfortable or emotional in a children's hospital. It is a common experience for bereaved parents. I'm really not. I feel confident in a hospital. I know how it works. It's familiar and predictable as far as processes and procedures. Hospitals are serious, but not upsetting for me. 

The grocery store that is near the house we lived in for most of Eli's life? Oh my that place is so sad. It's alive with memories of my little guy. I went there yesterday for the first time in a long time. I was just in the area and needed to pick up a few things. I didn't think anything of it. But once inside, every department and aisle made me moan with heartache. I remembered opening the dairy case to get milk with Eli in the cart. I remembered taking him to the bakery to pick out a cookie- "Chocolate chip or sprinkles today?" "Chawkwit chip" That store is filled with echos of Eli and I didn't realize it until I went in. 

Grief is different for everyone. 

I know these new sojourners will receive an abundance of love and support. But they'll still have to find their own way. We all do. 

If you are a praying person, please pray for the Armga family. 

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I was thinking about this picture this morning and I had to find it. I dislike it for so many reasons: it's horribly back-lit, the angle is unflattering, I hadn't washed (or brushed?) my hair in days, you can see how short my chewed up nails are. But even the moment I took it I knew it was a keeper, if just for me. Eli had been sick for days. We were filthy and sick of being sick. But we were on the couch playing my ukulele and the kids' toy guitar, just randomly strumming and making faces. It was a moment in time where Eli and I were perfectly tuned into each other. It was fun and funny and fleeting. I love Eli's face. He's purposely being so serious. :)

I remember the feel of his little arms around my neck and his sticky sweat where his head rested on my chest. 

Play the toy guitar. Take the picture. Even if you haven't showered in days and all evidence points to you not even owning a hairbrush. 

I still am not thrilled with the composition of this picture. But I love the moment it captured.

Real life is so precious.