Friday, March 23, 2012 was “Wishy Washy Day” for Kindergarten. Aubrey was dressed as a farmer girl in cute overalls with pig tails and freckles. She was beyond excited. I didn’t know I was allowed to go, so I missed it. I’ll never forget the way she ran off the school bus that afternoon. In her most serious voice, she said “Mama, you missed my great performance! I was sad but I’m just glad to be home with you.” Somehow, the moment etched itself in my memory immediately. Like Aubrey said about so many things, “This was important”.
The next day we had my husband’s family over. All the kids fished and played together beautifully. It was a really great day. Later that night, Aubrey told me she had a headache and just didn’t feel well. She came inside and began throwing up. Because she dealt with these kind of things often, I wasn’t alarmed. I put her in a bath and washed her hair and sat on the floor with her. She was extremely tired, so I put her to bed. She felt too bad for prayers, so I just tucked her in, kissed her wet head and told her goodnight. She looked up and said “Goodnight, Mama. I love you so much”. As I closed the door, a strange chill ran up my back. Something was wrong but I didn’t know what. I tried to enjoy the rest of the evening with our guests but couldn’t shake that feeling.
After going to bed, I constantly got up, checking on my girl, in such a deep sleep. She felt a little warm but I didn’t want to wake her and I knew the medicine would only make her throw up more. I put one of those sticky fever reducing patches on her head as she slept. After many hours of checking her slightly warm head, I fell asleep.
Sunday morning (really, just a few hours later), I woke up and went to see how Aub was. What I saw when I walked into her bedroom will stay with me for the rest of my life. Her covers were off of her, her hair was wet and matted, her cheeks were flushed and her little body was laying straight as a board. I ran to her and tried to wake her up with zero response. I picked her up and ran into my room with all the children following me. I had them put cold washcloths on her head and keep talking to her as I got my clothes on. I stepped outside for a second to call her Daddy. When he answered, I started shaking and somehow told him to meet me at the emergency room. When he asked what was wrong, I froze. All I could say is “she’s just so stiff” over and over. I remember him saying “Oh God” and hanging up. I ran inside, grabbed her and one of the older kids. She held Aubrey so tight in the back seat of my car as I raced down the interstate, flashers on and blaring my horn.
When we got there, I didn’t know what to do. I had to take Aubrey inside so I told my 14-year-old step-daughter to park the car. At that point, I didn’t care what might happen. I ran inside, screaming for help. They rushed us right in and put her on the exam table where she started seizing. I watched as they stripped down and strapped my little girl’s head and body to that bed. They drew blood, put in tubes and poked and prodded her. Suddenly, she stopped seizing and opened her eyes. I leaned over her and, in that short moment, she looked right into my soul. I saw her entire six years flash before my eyes and then she shut her big, brown eyes. They took her back for brain scans, etc. I could hear doctors and nurses talking in panic and everything just stopped. I fell apart, sobbing and shaking in the corner. Aubrey’s Daddy got there and I could barely speak. The fear in his eyes is something I will never forget. I sat in this little chair on the edge of the room as they continued to try to save my daughter’s life. Finally, the doctor came in to say they were sending a helicopter down from Macon to take her to the Children’s Hospital. The majority of the next 40 minutes, waiting on that flight to arrive is a blur. Phone calls and arrangements were made. My Mama was coming back from the beach and would meet me in Macon. I just remember sitting in that little chair and holding on for dear life in total shock of what was going on around me.
I remember walking out with my Daddy and Aubrey’s Daddy and being confused about why the parking lot had been cleared out. There was a fire truck blocking things off. Then, the helicopter came down and they wheeled Aubrey quickly past us. Just like that, they lifted off into the air and were gone. A fireman walked over to us. I realized it was an old friend of our family. When he asked who was being LifeFlighted, I heard my Daddy say “That was Aubrey”. His words echoed so loud in my head.
Aubrey’s Daddy drove us to Macon. We had a friend with the GSP call ahead for us so we could drive faster. Macon is usually at least 2 hours away. We spent the majority of that 80 minutes in the most deafening silence. Our relationship had been very rocky and our words very limited the two-and-a-half years prior. This was not something either of us wanted to be doing together. I somehow texted close friends so that they could spread the word and pray. Prayer was something I had not been doing well. Sure, we prayed at meal times and bed time but not regularly and not faithfully. I remember him flipping through radio stations trying to get some distracting music playing. It seemed the Christian stations came in so loud and clear but all others were full of static. For reasons unknown, that bothered me but I didn’t want to ask him to go back to them. It felt silly and I was scared of the rejection I thought would come. I didn’t want to fight.
We got to the Macon hospital exit quickly and the irony wasn’t lost on me. Just 10 days prior, I was there with Aubrey doing some tests for her reflux. Such a routine thing, as we were there often. We went in, came out and ate at the little Subway across the street. Aub said it was “our thing”. I thought to myself, when this is over and she’s well, I’m going to take her there to eat.
We walked into the hospital and gave the receptionist our names and she immediately sent us up to the 4th floor. Instead of turning right, like we always did for her appointments, we were ushered left into the P-ICU. The same chill ran up my spine as it had the night before. I knew in my gut this was not something I was prepared for. This was territory I never planned to enter and one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. We were quickly taken to where Aubrey was. They told us we couldn’t go in but just to “take a quick peek at her”. I barely recognized my own child. Wires, tubes and monitors going into her entire body. Her face was very swollen and her tongue had been put in place sticking out of her mouth (so she wouldn’t bite it). They sat us in a conference room and explained that Aubrey continued to seize in the helicopter and that they had to induce a coma to try to protect her brain. He believed her fever was caused by the seizure which confused me. I had always heard of that being a reverse effect. After that, I can’t remember anything else the doctor said. I just remember sitting with my parents and her Daddy in complete shock.
I have never in my life felt so helpless or afraid. A Mama is supposed to protect her children. Yet, there was nothing I could do. It was all out of my hands.
Those next few days, I stayed in that small P-ICU room with Aubrey and her Daddy. It had a revolving door of doctors, nurses, family and friends. I sat in a hard rocking chair, holding her hand with almost zero food or rest. They ran many tests and gave her more medicine than I knew existed. I stared at her monitors day and night. There was a number that represented the amount of pressure on her brain. Though it stayed high, when it rose I panicked and when I lowered slightly I breathed again. The doctor told us that Aubrey had suffered “the most devastating, granddaddy of all seizures”. There was no hope in any of those doctor’s eyes. They tried all they knew and put their faith in modern medicine. Meanwhile, everyone around us and at home prayed and put all their faith in God. I tried to do the same but I just felt so empty. I was silent on the outside but inside, I screamed, begged and pleaded with God. I just couldn’t fathom the thought of leaving that place without my baby girl.
Wednesday, was my 32nd birthday. My Daddy took me to the cafeteria for my first actual meal all week. I ate some grits and eggs but could barely swallow. I spent most of the day curled up at the bottom of my daughter’s hospital bed. I slept off and on between visitors. Very few were able to muster the words “Happy Birthday”. The day had a different feel in the air. In spite of the people laying hands on and praying for my child, I knew in my heart she was not going to survive this. I remember collapsing into my Daddy’s arms in a hallway and feeling all that weight just drop. I had lost the will to fight anymore. That night, surprisingly, I read verses from someone’s bible with her Daddy. I prayed my biggest prayers but I just knew there was no hope. So, I simply said “God, please give me all her pain. Please free my child and put it all on me.” I fell asleep that night knowing what the next day would bring.
Thursday, March 29, 2012 was the day that they technically, medically declared my last-born child brain dead. It was a date that would be etched on a gravestone and mark the end of a very short little life. It was the day that every pair of eyes that met mine would be different. That day told the world that I lost a child. I was a bereaved mother. From that day on, nothing would ever be the same.
Telling my boys was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say. Each reacted so differently. Tyler, the brave boy he is, wanted to stay strong and not break down. It was almost as if he was trying to protect me. Caton, Aubrey’s “Bubby” refused to believe it. He just kept shaking his head and saying “No! She’s going to be okay”. The emotions I saw in them were exactly the ones I had fought all along. I said all the things I knew a Mama was supposed to say to her children in that situation. I reminded them their baby sister would be in Heaven with Jesus and that we would spend eternity with her. I said the words but it all just felt so empty.
We followed all the necessary steps and got things ready for Aubrey’s organ donor surgery the following day. Most of our friends and family already left. I stayed in the hotel with Daddy and the boys that night. Surprisingly, I slept most of the night. My Mama stayed with Aub. I’ll never have the guts to ask her what she did that night, up there all alone with Aubrey. The sound of the machines that kept her body alive so that she could later help others (as she told me previously was what she wanted). There was no longer any need in watching the monitors. There was no prayer for a miraculous recovery. Aubrey was gone.
Friday is very foggy in my mind. I know I was there at that hospital and that I said goodbye to the shell that had belonged to my daughter. I know I thanked the nurses and maybe the doctors. I said goodbye to the family across the hall that we had gotten to know. I assured them their son would survive and that they would not have to walk this walk we faced. (I regreted that as I learned he died a few days later). I slightly remember all the texts, emails, Facebook messages, etc. that came those days. All the prayers and kind words from so many people were meant to remind me of God’s great love for us. I was completely numb.
Visitation, casket, funeral, cemetery…all words that aren’t usually associated with a child. It was the most bizarre and miserable set of events. I took myself to the land of escape for most of it. I am sure I was in shock for some time. I’ll sum things up by saying that while it was all beautiful and full of love from so many, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. There is nothing natural or acceptable of being proceeded in death by your child of any age.
So…that was the beginning of this journey of our grief. Feel free to come back and walk through this life with me. There are days of mostly sadness and darkness while other days are filled with joy and happiness. Grief is like a wave. I have no choice but to ride it and to keep my head above the water. I have too many people who bravely love me to allow myself to slip under the surface and die. I am comforted by the knowledge that my baby girl is safe and well in the arms of Jesus and that I can join her when my walk here is finished. Soon and very soon…..
