It has been a journey

I honestly had forgotten about this blog, until recently. The thought came to mind, "I should start writing again." And so here I am.
Where I have been, is another story. The past 5 years have been a whirlwind. Barely 2 months after my last post, the unthinkable happened. I still get tingles up and down my body when I think about it.
I still can't remember the exact details of the beginning of the day. I believe it was a normal day, waking up, getting the kids ready for the day, and having the nanny come over to be with the kids for the day.
I raced home after work, and on the way checked in with the hubby to see where he was. He was going to watch the kids while I went in for an appointment. After finally reaching him, I found out he was on a job in the western side of town, unable to make it home to watch the kids. I was bummed. 3 kids 3 and under is not an easy group to just "bring with you." So, I called the treatment place I was going to be going to, and asked if it was okay if I brought my kids, or if they wanted me to cancel the appointment. I was told, bring the kids. And so I did. Hindsight is always 20/20.
We arrived at the appointment. My son refused to let me hold his hand, as he was so proud of the fact he was finally walking on his own at 18 months. I remember trying to hold the back of his shirt, to which he pitched quite the fit.
Once inside, I checked in, made sure the kids were entertained with either the toys I brought for them, or the toys at the office. We were called back to the treatment room, and the kids didn't want to leave my sight. From the one room, we moved into the next room, and the kids set up on the floor with their toys. My son was obsessed with cars, and was playing with the car, and driving it along the table were I was laying for treatment. I remember the girls arguing, and me saying to them, " it is just 10 minutes kids; can't you get along for 10 minutes?!?"
Next thing I knew, the table I was on was lowering. I heard screams, and I heard a small whimper from my son. That was the last time I would hear him utter a sound.
Before I could believe that this was actually happening, I jumped into try and lift the table and it wasn't working. I tried to get my screaming children from the room, while still trying to loosen the grip this now horrible contraption was having on my son. To no avail, CPR was performed on my son. It was my worst nightmare - wanting to scream, and yet feeling like you can't because time is standing still in this twilight of horrors - "God please! I'm not ready to let go of my son!" I remember saying over and over again as if it were a mantra.
Emergency teams, ambulances, and every other emergency person in the area, seemed to converge on that space, in what felt like time stood still. I was by myself with 3 small children.
 Before I got into the ambulance, I remember asking the paramedic, "I need to know if he's alive. I don't want to leave my girls if he's gone, and we are just going to the hospital to make a declaration that he is dead." The paramedic said he didn't know, but that I needed to make a decision if I was going to stay, or if I was going to go to the hospital. And so I went, and kissed my sweet, scared and screaming daughters goodbye.
When I arrived at the hospital, I entered to see a sea of medical staff that appeared to be on pause - waiting for the crisis to wheel through the door. I remember saying to them before my son came through, "Whatever you are able to do, thank you." I don't know how those words came out of my mouth, but they did.
A chaplain was in the corner and came over to me, once my son passed by on a gurney that looked like a football field in comparison to his small 18 month old body. There I stood against the wall in shock. When the chaplain said to me, "Is there anyone with you?" I wanted to scream. It hit me, I was by myself. I told her I was alone, and that we needed to reach my husband.
She brought me to a room, no windows, a small couch and a chair. She offered to have me sit down, but I couldn't hardly sit let alone stand. I was restless. On the way to the hospital, I remember calling one of my girlfriends, and I remember calling my therapist - having to leave a message. It was at this point that the door opened and the doctor came in. My therapist happened to call back at this time. The doctor shared with me that my son was essentially brain dead, and that we were going to need to take him off life support. With the phone to my ear, and my voice bearly there, I remember saying to my therapist, "I need you to be my tape recorder, as I am not going to remember this." With that, I handed the phone to the doctor to have him repeat what he had told me with the medical terminology to my therapist.
We left the room. The chaplain, holding me up, as we followed the doctor to the room that my son was in. I remember feeling like all the eyes in that emergency room were on me. The look in their eyes was a tangible cry of sympathy that they had for me. The emergency room is normally a very busy and loud place, but was eerily hushed for 6pm on a Thursday. I looked at the floor, somehow drawing strength from just thinking, "put one foot on this tile square, and then on the next one; just one at a time."
We entered the room where my son lay. I heard the beeping noises echo in this sterile tiled room. I noticed my son's clothes cut apart and in the corner, along with his diaper. Once I saw him on the gurney, I realized he was taken off of life support already. I said to the nurse, "He looks like he is just asleep - like he's going to wake up!" She comforted me and found me a chair to sit on. She asked if I wanted to hold him, and I found myself weak, barely able to approach him, and stroke my son's hair. He still felt warm to the touch, and I just ached for him to wake up. But the seconds on the clocked ticked by and reminded me that time was now moving by without him in my life.
It felt like an eternity before my husband arrived to be there with me. He was told that his son had died once he arrived at the hospital. It was surreal, to now see the same set of shock emotions and disbelief encompass him, as I had just been a few hours earlier.
We had a couple more hours with our son, before we were told we had to leave, as the funeral home was going to be coming. As we exited the room, we walked through the emergency room, still eerily peaceful, and into a taxi to bring us home - as we were in no condition to drive ourselves home.
We sat in the back of the car together, in shock that we were leaving our son. The taxi driver announced to us that we were just leaving one of the best hospitals in the state, and that all his kids and grandkids had been born there. Which then got him talking, to which he inquired what we were doing there. I looked at my husband in disbelief, and saw from the look on his face that he was not about to answer that question. So I did. "Our son just died." The driver said something to the effect of "Well, that sucks." And then proceeded to announce that we needed gas - we had to stop for fuel. My husband and I were giving each other looks of, "you have got to be kidding me."
Once at the fuel station, our story must have overwhelmed the driver, that he decided to take a smoke break just outside the front of the gas station. It was like this nightmare couldn't get any worse.
We finally were on the road. We had given him our address, and explained where it was, but the driver insisted on using his GPS. I finally couldn't take it anymore, as the GPS system was taking us on a LONG version of a route to take us home. I voiced that he needed to follow my instructions as we needed to get home.
Home at last, and I make my way into the house. It now feels so surreal. An empty house without our girls - who were overnight with family friends - and now without our son, permanently without him. It was almost the start of another day, as I climbed into bed - hardly feeling my surroundings. I laid down on my pillow, with tears soaking everything. Next thing I knew, it was my cell phone ringing. I sat up, and answered, somehow thinking that maybe this was just a horrible dream, and I was going to wake up to something different. Sadly, this was not the case. Someone on the other end asked for me. I didn't recognize her voice. I asked her who this was. She said she was calling from the organ donation organization. In my exhausted state of mind, I honestly thought she was taking about the musical instrument, and then it hit me; she was calling about my son. She shared with me that the only thing they were going to be able to potentially donate where his eyes. I remember my stomach literally turning upside down and inside out. I said to her, "you have got to be kidding me. My son just died, and now you want to know if you can have parts of him?!?" She tried to calm me down, and said they would call me in the morning once I had had time to think about it and sleep on it.
I revisited the pillow. Aching for it to bring me comfort, but it didn't. Holding my son's favorite blanket, I held onto his scent, as I finally closed my eyes, and closed my participation on that horrific day.
It will be 5 years since this all took place. In some respects, it still feels like it was just yesterday. We have had ups and downs in that time. We had a little girl that we lost at 16 weeks gestation. And then we were able to have a little boy this past January.
Our family has lived in various therapists offices during this time. We have found that healing takes a lifetime, and is never truly complete. The PTSD, and other trauma symptoms do show their faces in each of us every now and again, but it isn't to the point that it paralyzes us like it did in the beginning.
I have learned that I now have a pre and post life - one with my son, and one without. There are people that followed us along the first part of the journey, and now we have a life with a new group of people that don't know this story. I've discovered that is okay. I no longer wear my heart on my sleeve, but learn to be open to the right opportunities to share where I have been, and where I am now.
I have played around with the idea of writing a book, but I'm not sure where that would go. I have used the line, "you just can't make this stuff up," and thought this truly resonates with our family's journey. I hope to have the pieces fit together like a beautiful mosaic, but feel like there are so many other broken pieces that the Lord is working on beautifying. We shall see when the light will shine through to illuminate the masterpiece He sees in our lives.

Ephesians 3:20