The shirt I had made for Julian as his “coming home” outfit said, “The Littlest Brother.” I remember thinking when we first found out it was another boy, about what I would want him to come home in. Matteo wore a onesie that said “Little Brother” so when I saw “The Littlest Brother” I knew it was perfect. After all, we decided that was it, we were only going to have three kids, and Julian was supposed to be our last.
When I knew Julian would never get to wear it, it rocked me to my core. I wanted him to. I wanted to see it on him.
Now let me tell you, these NICU doctors are the most compassionate human beings on this earth. I cried to one of our neonatologists with tears and said, “I wish Julian would be able to wear his coming home outfit that we got him, I just want to be able to see him in it.”
I didn’t think it was possible. Julian had tubes coming out of his sides, going every which way. I started to imagine what he would look like with it on, and I just became satisfied with how my vision was going to be as good as it was going to get.
Without hesitation, and to my surprise, she said, “I’ll get his outfit on don’t you worry.”
Within seconds she had a pair of scissors and scotch tape in her hands and said,
“Do you mind if I cut it?”
“No, do what you need to do”, I cried.
This amazing doctor, Sam was her name, started cutting the side of his onesie. You can see it in the picture on my blog. The whole side was cut. Somehow, with the help of other nurses, they slid his body into it from the side, so his tubes were still able to do their thing. Once on, she began to tape up the sides so they met together as seamlessly as they could.
“How’s that?”, she beamed.
“Perfect”, I said with tears rolling down.
My baby was wearing his outfit.
No more visions of it,
it was real.
The NICU called a professional photographer to come take pictures for us. Once we decided it was time, everyone in the room said their goodbyes to our son. One at a time this photographer took pictures of each person as they kissed him goodbye.
Snap. Snap.
I can still hear the sound each picture made as she captured them one by one. I remember saying to myself, man, what is she thinking as she is doing this? Obviously this isn't something that she does on a daily basis in her career. What was going through her mind? Is she okay with this? Does she have kids herself? Will she go home and hug her kids tighter because of this? Will she always remember this moment?
Snap. Snap.
People going up to my son, kissing his hands and feet, crying out, sobbing as they left.
Traffic.
It was truly another one of those out of body experiences. Just looking at Julian, laying there. Wondering if he heard all of the cries, if he heard all the “I love yous” and if he knew his army was there. Will always be there.
Little by little, one by one, the room became more emptied. I didn't want it to end because I knew what that meant when it was just my husband and I left. I knew that would mean we were getting closer to saying goodbye to Julian forever. But I also knew it meant I could hold my son for the first time. Oh how I longed to hold my baby boy, how so many times I wanted to just scoop him up and press his body against mine, just as I did with his brothers. It’s innate in us. It’s what our arms were meanrt for; to hold our children. And not being able to hold Julian was devasting to me.
But as the last snap went off from the photographer and as the last people left and said goodbye, I knew my boy would be in my arms soon. I knew I would finally get to embrace him, kiss him, smell him.
I was ready for that.
I just wasn't ready to say goodbye at the same time.
