Twenty-four Days

About this time last year, I wrote a blog post about Sammy's Day.  July 22nd is the day we said good-bye to Samuel John on this earth.  I never did post about our sweet Hannah Mae's Day in 2012; the thoughts have been in my head since last year, but they never made it on paper...or screen as technology would have it.  Her day is today...August 5th...just two weeks after Mr. Samuel John's.

Nine years ago, after the whirlwind birth of the triplets and the events that came to fruition following, there was a grief that seemed intolerable.  I would wake up wondering if there would be a day when there was not pain, and I came to realize in those days that mental anguish is worse than any kind of physical pain on this earth.  I am not sure when the pain and grief subsided, but I can now say that I look on the lives of Sam and Hannah with fondness and a profound sense of thankfulness that I had them for the short while that I did.  Over the years, as I've reflected, the gifts of their lives have unfolded for me.  It's quite profound to realize what you can learn from a small life...a critically ill life...the life of a babe who cannot even speak to you... in such a short amount of time.  Ten days. Twenty-four days.

Twenty-four days.  The moments in those 24 days...those 574 hours...obviously changed me forever; they changed me in more ways than I could ever blog about in a column.  However, my beautiful, sweet Hannah Mae taught me a monumental lesson about selflessness in the mere twenty-four days she was with us here.

From the moment I first met Miss Hannah in the NICU at Children's Hospital, I knew she was a gentle one.  Funny how a mother can sense the personalities of her babies even as they are engulfed in incubators, connected to numerous lines and wires.  She was the quiet beauty, though.  Perfectly rounded nose, light hair that always settled just right on her head and looked FABULOUS with the bows her nurse secured to her head with Aquaphor (the go-to ointment for everything in the NICU).  She was the one who was always on the bottom of the pile in the ultrasounds. Honestly, we saw footage of her being "jumped" on by her siblings.  She was the eldest, the firstborn.

The kids were born late on a Monday night.  When you give birth to 25-week triplets, every single day is a roller coaster in the NICU.  Every hour was critical in that first week, but by Hannah's first weekend, we knew her lung function was declining.  On that Saturday, we went home to try to get a nap in; not long after I fell asleep, the phone rang.  I knew before we answered it that it was the hospital and they were calling about Hannah.  At the time, she was coding and they were trying to resuscitate her...a little babe who was already ventilated.

I remember clearly screaming as my dad, mom and brother drove Bill and I into the hospital, "She CANNOT die.  I CANNOT lose her."  Looking back, I realize now that the key word was "I."

Hannah did not die that day.  She stabilized and was with us for a little more than three more weeks.  Her body never recovered from that day, however.  She bled into her lungs that day, which caused her lung function to suffer indefinitely.  She likely bled into her brain as well, or suffered hypoxia from the events, as she had to be put on anti-seizure medications from the damage to her brain.  The hole in her heart would not close even with the help of medication like Camille's did; she would require heart surgery if there was any hope of helping her lungs.  She was weak and getting weaker.  Every organ system reflected it.  My prayers went something like, "PLEASE God, heal her heart, heal her brain, heal her lungs, heal her kidneys, don't let her get NEC like Sammy."  I felt desperate.  I did not feel peace in this prayer.  It was dead-end prayer, based on my desire to keep her with me for me.

On days 22 and 23, we had several lengthy conversations with a doctor who remains near and dear to our heart.  We prayed and sought advice from our favorite priests.  I won't launch into a discussion about my thoughts regarding the will of God; that's a different blog post--one for which I might be burned at the stake.  Don't get me wrong...I truly believe in God, a gracious, compassionate God; but I also believe in human free will and in science.  It became increasingly apparent to us that science was winning the fight with Hannah.  There are a constellation of events that happen sequentially as a baby forms inside its mother.  Over the course of nine months, these growth processes allow a fetus to grow into a baby that can eventually survive in the outside world.  Interrupt the process at 25 weeks, and the fight is a hard one to win.

The earth was too harsh for Hannah.  Her little body was not winning the fight.  We let her go. God could not heal her earthly body, but he could welcome her soul home when the world was too harsh.

At the time, we were absolutely sure that the decision was the right one as we were filled with peace.  My prayers of desperation turned into quiet moments with Hannah as we held her and said good-bye.  When those actual last moments came, they were among the most peaceful and beautiful of my life.

In the few years that followed and the grief set in, I would be lying if I said I never felt insecure about our decision.  Everyone has an opinion to offer, some quite judgemental.  However, the peace has returned as I have realized that she taught us the gift of selflessness.

To have kept her on earth struggling, sedated and in pain would have been selfish, especially since the outcome was likely inevitable.  To let her go to God, who welcomed her from a life on earth that she couldn't survive, was the selfless thing to do.

I admit that as we let Sammy and Hannah's Heaven Day balloons go today, I felt a twinge in my heart. I looked at our beautiful Camille, growing into this amazing human being, and I wonder what Sam and Hannah would look like today.  I wondered what their interests would be, what their voices would sound like, how the three triplets would exist together.

And then I remember the lessons of twenty-four days, especially the true test of selflessness.  Their spirits are here, teaching us throughout our lives as we ponder theirs and the legacy they have left behind.  Love those two.  Always will.  So grateful.