One Year

One year ago, Josh and I did what no parent should ever have to.  We had to make the decision to take Layton off of life support, and let him pass in Josh's arms, rather than in the middle of a code.

Before they started stripping Layton of all the machines, I put my arms around him on his warming bed and told him that it was okay to let go.  I told him that he didn't need to be scared, because Ellie would be right there when he got to Heaven.  And that he would see us again after we finish our time here on earth.

As they prepped him to move to Josh's arms...I had to step out.  On the other side of that sliding glass door...I slumped to the floor.  Breath evaded me.  As I let any grip I had on hope slip away....I sobbed.  Guttural, raw....exposed. 

One of Layton's favorite respiratory therapists, Patti, lifted me off the floor and forced me to take a breath.

Then I went and sat at Josh's feet.  As I sat there, my son's heart stopped beating as Rose, another respiratory therapist, gave him his final breaths.  I listened as more feet shuffled into the impossibly tiny isolation room that Layton was in.  And I heard sobs...not just from me.  Not just from Josh.  But from doctors, specialists, nurses & respiratory therapists that loved Layton almost as much as we did.

For the first time ever - we rolled a baby of our own in one of those acrylic rolly baby carrier things that hospitals have for new babies.  You know - the ones where sleep deprived, brand new parents roll their newborn around the hospital corridor just to get our of their room for a moment.  In a million years, I never expected that my only experience with one of these would be taking my deceased son to a room where we would mourn him.

Layton's final 16 hours of life were horrifying.  And scary.  And the most gut-wrenching hurt I will ever experience in my life.  I will likely never fully share all the things I saw that night.  But there isn't a day that goes by where it doesn't haunt me.

Friends, this is the raw & unfiltered pain my heart feels every single day.  It doesn't mean that I don't live my life, or love my life.  But I live this life without two huge pieces of my heart.  I will never, ever, ever.....be the same as I was before.  I will never live this life without one hand on earth and the other reaching for Heaven.

I love you, Layton bear.  I wish you were still here.  I wish I could cuddle you.  I wish I could breath you in - because even amidst all the medicine & machines, you still smelled like a scrumptious baby.  I wish I could see your smile just one more time...even though that would never be enough. 

I am beyond thankful for the time I had with you and the impact you made on my life...but I will never feel like it was enough.  Never.  Not until I am on the other side of the veil, and we are together for eternity.

Until then my sweet boy....enjoy Heaven's nursery.  And give that sister of yours the biggest hug ever.

Loving and missing you both every single second of every single day.

-Mommy.