Desperation

Just when I thought I hit the lowest of my lows, today happened. While getting her breathing tube out was a step in the right direction, I had my hopes up so high to see if my baby girl would perk up and recognize her mama. We’ve been told several times that the one of the two remaining meds that she is still taking will cause her to be a bit drowsy. Her eyes opened just a sliver, but I could tell she was still doped up from the medication. I looked for a twinkle of recognition in her eyes, but there was nothing. She wasn't completely awake or lucid, but my heart was shattered seeing her lay there with a blank look on her face.

A few hours after extubation, I felt brave enough to try to hold her. While she had her breathing tube in, nurses and doctors had to be extremely careful when moving her around for fear of the tube catching her esophagus the wrong way. Needless to say, Pete and I barely touched her the last 10 days while the tube was in her throat. I asked the nurse if it was possible to hold her for a bit and I already had tears streaming down my face in anticipation. I climbed into the bed and the nurse lifted up Grace’s body and placed her belly down on top of my chest. I cried out in anguish as I felt her weight being placed upon me. I missed holding her so much, but she didn't feel the same. Her body was in a type of paralysis and she didn't fit into my little nook like she used to. This took me to a whole new level of heartbreak and my tears came with fits of convulsion as I realized that she will never be the same. I held her close to my body and tried to make her fit, but she kept slipping away. Baby girl felt my body heaving in cries, and her heart rate shot up and I could tell she was uncomfortable. Soon after, I told the nurse that we should put her down so she could calm down and get some rest.

I realize now that while she was fully sedated, it was easier to have hope that she would wake up and maybe be alright. Even though the neurologists warned us about the severity of her brain injury, there was always a tiny bit of hope that she would wake up and still recognize us. Seeing her partially awake was the hardest part of this whole journey. To come face to face with the fact that the little girl I came to know for the last nearly 10 months might no longer be inside there was something I wasn't prepared for, no matter how many times the doctors mentioned it. I don't know for sure yet, but it looks like I'll have to relearn my daughter again. Even though we don't know the extent of her injury, my brain still goes to all the milestones that she had achieved in her short span of life and how all those are now possibly gone. The one I will miss the most is her saying “Mama.” I hope I hear it again in this lifetime.