Details

I woke up this morning remembering his face. The details of his ears. His fingers. I didn't want to get out of bed. I wanted to crawl in a hole and scream out to the world to slow down and shut up, that MY world was in slow motion and I just wanted everything to go away. But it doesn't happen that way. The world didn't stop when we found out Everett's prognosis, and it hasn't stopped now that he's gone.

But it did. It did. For over 3 1/2 hours. The world stopped turning and the only thing that mattered was what was happening in D-7 at NSH Atlanta from 6:19am to 9:54am on May 31, 2012.

The details of delivery are a bit comical and show the realness of life in the midst of my 'fairy tale nightmare'. Today, though, I want to remember only the moments with Everett. I need that today, and I want to get it all out on 'paper' before it's not as clear.


The nurses and midwife never even hesitated. He was placed in a blanket and put on my chest. He looked... almost normal. But not. There were some minor but obvious physical deformities. But we didn't care. It didn't matter to us. He was perfect. As soon as he was in my arms, Keith was by my side, face to face with our third son. We told him we loved him profusely and repeatedly and told him he didn't need to fight for us. He didn't need to hurt for his parents. Tara, the most incredible NICU nurse, by our side all day, listened to him and said his heart rate and respirations were almost normal. And I thought, I prayed, and I begged, O please God, please, Even Now I know you can heal him. Could it be? Could you have answered EVERY request? I begged and screamed in my head. Knowing it wasn't true, but willing it with everything in my body.

He never made sound. There were no cries. No whimpers. Nothing.

I don't know what Keith was thinking. We were both busy crying and assuring Everett that he didn't need to fight or hurt or struggle just for us. We had no idea what to expect.

He was small, but bigger than we thought. 6+ lbs. I know I should remember, but I don't. Just 6+ lbs. It wasn't a detail I was concerned about. In fact, we didn't weigh him until a few hours after he met Jesus. It just didn't matter what he weighed. And the nurses weren't going to steal a precious second from us to find out something as insignificant as weight.

He could only open his left eye. It was sunken in and basically brown, likely a result of some of his deformity-- we don't have brown eyes in either of our families. He was unable to open it all the way- just enough to let us know he was looking at us. Just enough to meet us. The voices he'd been hearing for these 42+ weeks. I began to wipe him off and clean him as much as we could without giving him a bath. A bath would likely have killed him, and he would've had to leave me and that would have killed me. So we just wiped him off. He laid there so silently. Completly still.

He had a head full of blondish red hair, just like Kipton. He had long fingers and toes. Because of his poor oxygenation, his fingernails were brown. He had more dusky kind of color than we thought, he wasn't as blue as we thought he might be. His APGAR score never topped 2. But he was breathing, ever so irradicately, but he was breathing. Just for us. An answer to our prayers.

He had none of the normal infant reflexes. He couldn't grasp our fingers. There was no rooting. He wasn't strong enough to turn his head or even move. Or maybe there just wasn't enough oxygen or enough brain matter. Either way, it didn't matter. He was breathing and his heart was pumping. Just for us. Just for a little while.

Keith let me hold him for about an hour or so. The whole time I was being stitched up and finishing the delivery process(the best part of the epidural, as I had never had one-- I was basically oblivious to what was happening). We talked and sang to him. He had one or two more almost normal heartbeat checks and it was time to bring in the family. The absolute best moments of the day.

They let the boys walk in first. Kipton immediately came and sat with me in the bed and started saying "Bebe Bebe". He touched him and talked to him. He poked his cheeks about a hundred times. Occassionally he'd come out with "Bebe Evett", but mostly just "bebe". Then he hugged him. He just reached those chubby little arms out and grabbed him. It was so beautiful. He touched his ear once and got the vernix (the cheesy stuff on newborns) on his finger, raised his chubby little finger in the air and said "boogey. get it. boogey." And we all laughed. Nurses, grands, and whoever else happened to be in there at that moment. And the entire world was blissfully forgotten.

We brought Aiden over to meet him, but Aiden is a thinker, not a toucher. He asked about the baby in my belly and if this was Everett. He climbed up on the bed with me for just a second, looked at him. Like he knew something wasn't right. My little intuitive, sweet Aiden snuggled right up next to me for just a minute. He doesn't often snuggle Mommy. He's Daddy's boy. He gave Everett one last look and wiggled down.

The grandparents came up and met him, still in my arms. We didn't know how long he'd live, so I wasn't giving him up so soon. Keith still had not held him and it had been about an hour an half. We had decided early on that depending on how well he was doing, Keith and I would be the only ones to hold him alive. We just wanted to be sure that the brothers and grandparents got to meet him while he was still breathing.

We were all hungry. It was 8:15 or so, and I was feeling sick. The kids were hungry and the granparents took the boys to get something to eat. Blissfully forgetting that anything was possibly abnormal about my son, I promptly gave Everett to Keith so I could get ready for pictures. We discovered Everett had pooped everywhere, including on me. No one expected his system to be that developed. New blakets and a little clean up later (the ONLY minute or so he wasn't held), Keith got to rock him. Sing to him. Whisper to him. After a few unpleasant moments for me, and a change of attire, I got to focus all of my attention on watching Daddy with his son. Loving him. In way that few parents will ever love their children. With a love that only a few cursed parents can really know. I long to see those pictures. I saw profiles, unable to really get out of the bed. I long to see those pictures.

The grandparents and kids came back and we started family pictures. And I got to watch as each of the grandparents held him. Loved him. Like few cursed grandparents ever loved. I watched as hard, strong men wept, weakened by the six pounds of frail life in their arms. I watched loving, giving women smile and whisper and weep for the only few minutes they would have with their precious grandson. I watched Aiden roll the doctor's stool around and around the room, watching everything that was happening. And Kipton climb into the lap of almost anyone who had the "Bebe". And there was an hour there that I forgot. That it all seemed so normal. It felt so...happy. Like this was a joyous, chaotic, new baby celebration. And I just forgot.

And then, somehow, while PopPop was holding him and the rest of the room was noisy and full, I was brought back. Everyone had held him. The nurses started asking a little loudly how I was doing and how I was feeling and were suggesting that we eat and get some rest. We all agreed, as I was insanely tired, nauseated but really hungry, and I just wanted to hold him again. Aiden crawled up with me one more time, my sweet little intuitive and snuggled with just me for another minute. Someone gave Everett back to me and we took one big family picture with the five of us, then with everyone. Kipton hugged and hugged the Bebe.

Final good byes were said to the grands and boys, all with some faith-full hope that it WASN'T final good byes. It just seemed like the typical meet and greet when a newborn arrives. I somehow REALLY thought we'd just take a nap and they'd all come back and we'd hang out again. A big family. All of us.

Then reality bit hard and swiftly.

As soon as they walked out, I asked Tara to check him again. He felt... cold. He looked bluer. He sounded like he was hiccupping. His heartrate was down to the 70s. I asked if he was hiccupping or gasping, and she just nodded her head. She tearily said "just a few more minutes". I started singing Jesus Loves You, this I know, For my Jesus tells me so". I couldn't finish it, so I just started humming, dripped my tears all over him. Keith kept rubbing his head, telling him thank you for staying with us. Thank you for letting us meet him. But it was okay now. It was okay to go to Jesus. He opened his left, brown, sunken eye one last time. Tara checked him again, he took one more silent gulp, and the entire room began to sniffle. Tara couldn't speak. I think it was Sandi of the HEARTstrings team who told us that Tara couldn't hear a heartbeat. All composure left and I shook as I held him. I yelled and screamed in my head EVEN NOW JESUS!! WHERE ARE YOU?!?! even now.... even now....

And I wish I could say that I felt him there with us. That I felt Jesus' tears with us. But I just felt...lost. I felt so deeply empty in that moment. I wish I could say that I was at peace in that moment because I knew his body was perfected and he was in the arms of Jesus. But the truth is, I felt sick. I felt an emptiness that few cursed parents will ever know. Or maybe other parents can find immediate comfort in the idea of their infant in heaven. Me? I just wanted my son back. I wasn't ready for Jesus to be his cradle.

Everyone cried for a while. I was in such shock, I actually don't remember too much about what happened after his death for a little while. I know we took more pictures. Tara, Karen, and Sandi did his hand and footprints. As I started to give Everett his bath, we unwrapped him from the blanket Gigi and I made only to discover he had pooped on it post mortem. We wiped it off as best we could, but there is still a little stain. His body was already getting cold, and his color was fading into blue. His lips were dark. Tara got him some warm water and I bathed him, right on the end of the bed. I washed him. Thinking the whole time, he's so cold. Knowing it didn't matter, but unable to stand at the warmer to give him a "proper" newborn bath. He smelled of all natural soap and we put him in his 'teddy bear on a cloud' layette. We put his hat back on, the little bear ears sticking out. I put those cute little bear shoes on his feet. And I swaddled him up. And I held him some more.

After a while, everyone left, including Keith, who went to get us some lunch. I got up and walked around a little bit. I put him in the hospital bassinet with his Everett blanket, and Everett bear. And I caught myself thinking, even now... even now... I took the picture. And when I needed to roll him over so all you could see was his tiny little profile, I knew it was time. I didn't want to remember him any "worse" than he was.

Keith came in and we ate. We had a few things to discuss. Dr. Kupke, the neonatologist/geneticist, no longer thought it was Fryns Syndrome, as some of the very distinctive features of Fryns were not consistent with Everett. So there were things to talk about. Ugly things.

We decided to do an autopsy to see if we could figure out WHAT went wrong and if it would effect possible future children or our boys' children. With the decision made, we told the nurses and decided it was time to say our final goodbyes.

They wouldn't let us send him in his 'bear on the cloud' outfit, so either we needed to undress him or Karen would do it for us. We decided we would do it. As carefully as we had clothed his tiny lifeless body, we undressed him, swaddled him in warm hospital blankets, kissed his head one more time, wrapped in the handmade Pooh quilt donated to HEARTstrings, placed him in the carrying basket, and watched Karen take him away.

Away.

Where I couldn't hold him again.

Where I couldn't kiss him again.

Keith and I held each other and cried. We walked over to the couch/bed and sat. Silently for about three minutes. We looked at each other and decided it was time to go. There was no way we'd sleep in that room again. Karen came back and we got discharge started.

We packed up. Said our thank yous to the tremendously wonderful HEARTstrings and NSHA nursing teams that helped us make it through the day.

And we left. Drained. But so thankful for the nearly 4 hours of breathing my little Everett had.

I am hesitant to say that was his entire life because it feels to me like he was here for so much longer. His 42 weeks 6 days changed my innermost being. He opened my heart to hard and dark places so that I could let them go and love more deeply. He broke down walls of insecurity and taught me how to be vulnerable. He brought a strained marriage to a point of graceful, loving, flexibility. He brought to a tighly-wound Mommy loving, forgiving, understanding insight. Because of Everett Connor Minick, I will be a better wife. I will be a better Mommy. Because of my tiny, motionless, silent Everett, I will write a better story.

And I pray you choose to do the same.