We make many choices in life; some simple and some far-reaching, but perhaps none as hard as the decision between life and death. Two years ago I was asked to make that decision on behalf of my son, who was five weeks old. He had fought meningitis and suffered permanent brain damage. He was on a life support machine and heavily sedated, in an attempt to prevent the seizures which still gripped him every few minutes. Up to that point, the doctors had made all the decisions; we had been consulted, granted, but still we knew that our little boy’s fate was in their hands. But on a bright Sunday morning in December the doctors asked us to make the decision alone. They could no longer advise us. Our son would not breathe independantly again, they thought, but if he did, that’s all he would ever do. He would never walk, or talk, or have any awareness of the world around him. Is that a life? I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything today; not sure we made the right decision, not even sure the doctors were right. Maybe our baby would have survived, maybe right now he’d be upstairs, lying in his little bed next to his twin brother. Maybe.
Rightly or wrongly, we told the doctors to remove all intensive care, and we were ushered into the family room to wait for our precious boy. How I hated that family room, filled with bad news and sorrow; with the tears of countless parents who had sat there dreading the future and weeping for the past. Our son was brought to us still sedated, to ensure he didn’t feel any pain – but who really knows what he felt? The doctor left us and closed the door, and our world stopped turning. Outside I could hear the machines bleeping, the nurses going about their business. Someone was laughing. We sat next to each other on the sofa, cradling our child and watching him die. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to stop the life from ebbing away from him; it goes against every instinct of nature to allow someone to die, right before your eyes, and do nothing to stop it happening. I read him a story and sang lullabies; I told him how much everyone loved him, and how we would never forget how he had touched our lives. I washed his face and brushed his hair; put on a warm cardigan and hat. I tried desperately to cram a million memories into a life too short to have any. And gradually, slowly, he stopped breathing. I felt as though my heart had been ripped out.
Suddenly I no longer had two sons. I no longer had twins. When I called the hospital the following day I only had one baby to ask after; just one cot to visit, one set of clothes to wash. A piece of me died too that day, and I will never get it back. I am filled with bitterness, and hate the person I have become because of this experience. I am bitter and resentful of every single person who has never known what it’s like to bury their child. Who, in the absence of such experience, seek to find comparisons in their own lives, in a way that could never ever compare. I am angry, so very very angry, with a God who could take away my baby. I’m angry with the doctor who told me my son would get better, just days before he told me he had to die. I am so sad for my remaining twin, who will never know the shadow he plays alongside every day. But mostly I am simply bereft; painfully, desperately grieving for my beautiful beautiful boy, who never had a chance to know how much he was loved.
Rightly or wrongly, we told the doctors to remove all intensive care, and we were ushered into the family room to wait for our precious boy. How I hated that family room, filled with bad news and sorrow; with the tears of countless parents who had sat there dreading the future and weeping for the past. Our son was brought to us still sedated, to ensure he didn’t feel any pain – but who really knows what he felt? The doctor left us and closed the door, and our world stopped turning. Outside I could hear the machines bleeping, the nurses going about their business. Someone was laughing. We sat next to each other on the sofa, cradling our child and watching him die. Every fibre of my being was screaming at me to stop the life from ebbing away from him; it goes against every instinct of nature to allow someone to die, right before your eyes, and do nothing to stop it happening. I read him a story and sang lullabies; I told him how much everyone loved him, and how we would never forget how he had touched our lives. I washed his face and brushed his hair; put on a warm cardigan and hat. I tried desperately to cram a million memories into a life too short to have any. And gradually, slowly, he stopped breathing. I felt as though my heart had been ripped out.
Suddenly I no longer had two sons. I no longer had twins. When I called the hospital the following day I only had one baby to ask after; just one cot to visit, one set of clothes to wash. A piece of me died too that day, and I will never get it back. I am filled with bitterness, and hate the person I have become because of this experience. I am bitter and resentful of every single person who has never known what it’s like to bury their child. Who, in the absence of such experience, seek to find comparisons in their own lives, in a way that could never ever compare. I am angry, so very very angry, with a God who could take away my baby. I’m angry with the doctor who told me my son would get better, just days before he told me he had to die. I am so sad for my remaining twin, who will never know the shadow he plays alongside every day. But mostly I am simply bereft; painfully, desperately grieving for my beautiful beautiful boy, who never had a chance to know how much he was loved.