Three Minutes

Once everyone left the room, it was just my husband and I with Julian. This was the first time we got to hold him. He was still attached to the ventilator. I was so scared to hold my son, but couldn’t wait at the same time. Finally, the moment came.

It felt surreal.

I remember my heart was racing, my palms were sweaty. I was so scared I was going to pull something out or make an alarm go off. We had to hold him a certain way, made sure we were close enough to the machine, be careful as to not get it tangled, etc. There were rules.

Rules to hold my son.

Damn. What I wouldn’t give to be able to hold Julian like I did with Angelo and Matteo.

Without rules. Small things that I just took for granted before.

The freedom of having them touch my skin, be on my chest. The freedom of being able to kiss them how I wanted, decide how I wanted to hold them. The freedom of being able to look at their beautiful faces without wondering what their mouth would look like if the breathing tube wasn’t attached.

Not this time. This was different. Oh, how different it was. But I sill had this time, and for that I am fortunate.

My husband and I took turns holding him, kissing him, talking and singing to him through our sobs. We spent a lot of time in this moment. We knew what was to come next; and we weren’t ready just yet.

Time went by, Julian’s numbers kept going down. Doctors told us they weren’t sure how much longer he would last. We wanted to take in all of Julian’s features without any tubes. I wanted to kiss him and hold him how I wanted. I didn’t want to wonder what he looked like without the tube. I wanted to see his beautiful face.

The nurses asked if he had any other outfits that we wanted him to wear.

I did. I had one more.

They said they were going to clean him up and put his new outfit on.

This time nothing needed to be cut.

There were no scissors.

There was no tape.

All of those tubes were already taken out, so they were able to put him in it “normal.”

They asked if he had a blanket.

I brought one.

There was one last thing they needed to do and that was to get a sample of blood so that we could have Julian genetically tested to see if doctors were missing something. They told us they would call us back in once they had him all ready.

“How long do you think our son will survive without the ventilator?” I remember asking.

“Not long,” our neonatologist said softly.

Frantically I asked, “As in hours? As in minutes? Like thirty? Twenty?”

“Just a few,” she replied with such somber.

A few. A FEW??

That’s when I started thinking of all the tasks that could be done in just “a few minutes.” Loading the dishwasher. Answering an email. Listening to one song. Just one.

My mind started to spin rapidly. How will I know when he passes? Is my child really going to die in my arms? Will he make a noise? Will I be given some type of warning sign that it’s coming? Will he grow cold quickly? Will his skin start to turn colors? What about his lips? Will they turn blue? Will his eyes finally open?

Questions. So many questions.

I guess during my thirty-two years of life, at the time, I’ve been fortunate enough not to have ever witnessed someone passing right before my eyes. I was so scared. I didn’t know if I could do it.

One of the neonatologists told me they would be more than happy to hold our son for us if we couldn’t and we could be right there.

I thought about it.

Quickly, I realized that wouldn’t settle right with me. That I would regret it later on if he wasn’t with me, or my husband. So, my husband and I made the decision that Julian would be placed in both of our arms, so we both could hold him, feel him, and be with him as he took his last breath. Somehow knowing my husband was going to feel it too, made me feel less scared. Less nervous.

As they called us back in, I don’t even know what I was thinking. It really is all a blur. But one thing that will always stick with me, is when they handed Julian over to us. I remember walking over to figure out how to position myself and my husband to make sure we both had him. I sat down, looked up, and BAM. Julian was in my arms. We where holding our boy.

Time started ticking.

10 seconds.

30 seconds.

It’s like a race against time. You know the inevitable is about to happen but you want to make it stop. You want to freeze time so that the seconds don’t slip away, so that your baby isn’t about to leave this earth while cradled in your arms.

My husband and I weren’t alone. Those nurses, doctors, they stayed. They stayed right there with us. They watched me cry out. Man, how we cried out. I kept telling Julian how sorry I was.

Sorry that I couldn’t save him.

Sorry that he’ll never grow up with his brothers.

Sorry that he only had a few short hours on this earth.

I touched his face. His lips.

His beautifully formed, perfect lips.

I finally got a chance to look at them, to look at his face as a whole. He looked a lot like Matteo. I kept touching them. Kissing them. I sang to him the same song I sing to his brothers; a song I completely made up when Angelo was born; a song my boys still will ask me to sing to them.

I didn’t care who was listening, how it sounded. I sang it out loud. I sang it in his ear. I pulled him into me, crying out, screaming why was God doing this to us, to him. Why was God taking our sweet boy away from us all. My husband couldn’t stop. His deep howls pierced my soul.

In one moment, I remember looking up. Our neonatologist was sobbing. He stood there, crying into his hands. I’ll never forget that image for as long as I live. These people were watching my husband and I during our rawest moments of our entire lives. There they stood. There they watched. There they witnessed a love so pure, a mother’s love, a father’s love. A love and a bond that is completely unbreakable,

yet watching it slip away.

How fragile life is.

Three minutes.

The same time it takes to do a warmup exercise, or purchase something online. That’s how long Julian lasted.

His skin grew cold but I couldn’t stop kissing him. I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want this to be true. I didn’t want to believe our son was gone;

but he was.

Our son took his last breath at 12:18 P.M. on Sunday, August 4th. Exactly ten minutes away from being a full 36 hours on this earth.

And it was in this moment, that my life as I knew it, was completely changed.

That I was no longer the same person I once was.

How I could never go back to that person.

And how could I?

For I was now a mother, who has lost her child.