A New Home.

Yesterday we were invited to join our friends and their family to go bowling and out to dinner.  I have pretty much been crying at the drop of a hat all week but I know I need to get out and keep living life.  Plus, I had already broken down in the stands of a Major League Baseball game, what's a bowling alley?  I was expecting to cry at some point during the outing but I was not prepared for how quickly it happened.

When ever we go north, we drive by "the hospital".  It sits high above the city on a hill.  For me, it is like a bully waiting at the entrance of a playground to take my milk money and make me cry.  Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep until we pass it.  Other times I have asked Josh to take a different route completely bypassing the city to get north.  This time I decided to stare it down and really look at the place where we spent the worst 30 days of our lives.

Because the hospital sits on a hill, the rooms have great views.  I spent a lot of hours staring out those windows and imagining our little family back out in the world together.  There is a hallway outside of the ICU that is lined with windows.  Most of them look at another part of the building but at the end of the hall you can see as far as the mountains.  You can also see the airport with planes coming and going all day long.  I would sit up in that windowsill when I needed a little break from all of the beeping of the ICU.  When Jack was sedated and intubated, people would try to get me to go for a walk, take a nap or just "take a break" but I never wanted to be too far.  I was afraid I would miss something important.  I just wanted to be as close to my baby as I could be.  The hallway was a safe distance in my mind.

I sat in that window, tucked my knees to my chest and watched the cars drive by on the tollway, coming and going, during rush hour or the middle of the day.  I would wonder where they were going, work?  somewhere fun?  on vacation?  All the time wondering if they knew how lucky they were to be outside in the world.  Did they have any idea that there were lives placed on hold and others hanging in the balance, so close to their commute?

Now we are the people cruising down the tollway heading to go bowling with friends.  I look up and I see the last place that Jack was in the world with us.  I see the last place I held hope for his recovery.  We fought for his life and lost there.  I see the last place I saw my baby smile.  We said goodbye there six months ago.  I can see the window of the corner room at the end of the hall where Jack died and the pain is physical.  What starts with a sniffle turns into a body shaking sob.  Just looking at that building....I don't even have words.  I asked Josh if we were just going to be stuck feeling awful every time we came in to the city.  Could it ever possibly get easier?  Will I ever drive by that building and not be flooded with tears?

In six weeks, we will move out of the home we shared with Jack.  Not by choice, our lease is not being renewed.  Some people have suggested that grief could be easier with a fresh start.  I love being in the home we shared as a family.  We did change the furniture around when we returned home without our son.  Our family helped clear the baby bottles out of the sink, move the swing from the living room and gather up everything from the nursery.  I just love sitting in the same window where I fed Jack all summer.  I love looking in the kitchen and remembering his bath time in the sink.  Looking over to where Josh would bounce him on his lap and make up songs for him.  Every now and again I find a pair of his pajamas or a tiny hat mixed in with my tank tops.  I like being where he was and where he lived.  It makes me so sad to think that in two months, we will drive by this special place but not be welcome inside anymore.

I have thought about wanting to leave the area completely and move far away.  That was my not-so-secret plan for a while.  I wanted to raise Jack where I grew up and with my friend's children.  I had it all planned out, block parties, play-dates and soccer games, it was going to be wonderful.  That doesn't feel right anymore.  I no longer have that desire to leave.  I want to be near where Jack was.  In his 4 months and 26 days here, Jack made this my new home.

Jack and I watched a lot of the Summer Olympics together.  We especially loved the women's gymnastics and their theme song by Phillip Phillips: "Home".  Now when I hear that song, I think of Jack.  I wonder if he had any idea that he was going to make this place my home?

Hold on, to me as we go

As we roll down this unfamiliar road

And although this wave is stringing us along

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Too Close to Home.

I am a health care recruiter.  Most of my work is as a nurse recruiter and for the past six months I have been working on positions like: Director of Home Health, Director of Hospice and CNAs.  With my experience of the past year, I take a new understanding of how hospitals work and what nurses really do day to day.  I watched it and lived it.  I really like what I do and I love talking with nurses and connecting them to new opportunities.

And then yesterday my client asked me to partner with them on a Pediatric Intensive Care Unit Nurse.

I could hardly get through the call without breaking down.  I wanted to some how share with them how close this project is to my heart.  But I can't tell them what happened.  There are professional boundaries that should not be crossed.  It would be awkward to share Jack's story with a stranger over the phone.  And then what would I expect them to say?  Most people cry when I tell them what happened   I don't really like making people cry, so I don't talk about it as much as I wish I could.

At one point on our call, it was mentioned that they need a nurse who can stay calm as "things go down the tubes fast" with a patient.  It took every thing I had not to start sobbing.  Things went "down the tubes fast" for my baby.  Even typing this I am shaking and crying.  How am I going to spend the next 30 days thinking about this and looking at it every single day?

As I work on my strategy for this position,  I need to watch their employment video and read their website.  I just cannot do it.  I started and there are pictures of children with NG tubes everywhere.  Children like Jack.  I wonder if they are at home with their families now.  I wonder what Jack would look like if he was with us.  What would he be learning and doing?  In the picture below, I caught him as he was learning to bring his hands to his mouth with a purpose.  This was taken they day before what would be his fatal injury.  He would have been 11 months tomorrow.  Instead, Saturday marked 6 months that he has been gone from us.

I spent the day sobbing intermittently   My pain is palpable and intense. We were away visiting friends and I cried my way though the Atlanta Botanical Gardens and at a Braves game.  Thoughts hung in my mind like: "Six months ago right now we were called into the 'bad news room' outside of the PICU and got the news that we had to say goodbye...Jack would not live through the afternoon."  I looked out at 40,000 people at the Braves game and thought: "None of these people are Jack.  Jack will never see a baseball game.  We will never watch Jack play baseball."  And then my eyes would well up and I would be shaking and crying sitting in the upper deck of Turner Field.

I want to nuzzle my face against his so badly.  That sweet smelling peach fuzz face that I miss so desperately.   When Jack was upset or scared, all I had to do was rub my face against his and mummer "Mamma loves you.  Mamma loves you." over and over again.  It was like magic. He would soften and the tears would dry up as his stiff little baby body melted into my arms.  He just needed that reassurance that I was there.

Now, I turn down the radio every day when I drive past Jack's cemetery and remind him "Mamma loves you."  And then I cry the rest of the way home.

I think I need to put some of my Jack framed photos away for a while.  Just looking with his sweet face ignites another round of sobbing.  As I sit at my desk, I can count at least 5 Jack faces in my line of sight.  These colorful reminders are more painful than anything now.  This morning I even had to make my dog the background photo on my phone  because any picture of Jack triggers more tears.  I feel terrible for having to hide him away but I need to, at least for today.

Recruiting for this PICU RN is bringing up so many memories.  The nurses who cared for Jack were absolute angels.  They were confident, skilled and kind.  They meticulously managed his medications and the machines that kept him alive during the darkest days. They offered hugs and hope each and every day.  The night nurses held his little hand for hours while we got some much needed sleep.  They cried right along with us when we said goodbye. A few even came to his visiting hours and funeral.  I know they loved Jack too.

I wish I could see them and get some big hugs from the nurses and doctors who loved my baby boy and worked so hard to save him.  I almost picked up the phone at lunch today to call the intensitivist who became like another mother to me during those terrible last weeks.   I know we were only one of many families they treat over the year but they were the only team of health care professionals who loved Jack and supported us.  There is an event this month to honor all of the babies like Jack.  I just am not ready to return to the hospital.  My wounds are still too raw.