It was the hardest day at work. In a while, it will be 24 hours since you are awake.
I will never forget the day I was alone, wandering in and out of the last moments of your life.
I was scared, sad, unsure of what I was doing.
Even so, I knew if I didn’t find you, there would be no one to bring you home and put you to rest.
I had an overwhelming urge to get to you before the sun rose.
You weren’t breathing when I found you.
You were cold and still and not looking at all like you did when I laid you on the stretcher.
I asked if you had been alive the whole time I was gone.
You had, but you looked like you were dead.
I felt the same way.
There was nothing left of you.
No sign of life.
I put you in a pillowcase and took you home.
It was supposed to be a quick trip.
Not long enough for you to die.
You were alive then.
And now I can tell you again: “I wish I could have been with you.
I love you, baby, “before you went to sleep.
This time, though, I won’t be able to say goodnight to you.
I won’t get to kiss your forehead and thank you for being alive.
I won’t get to kiss you when you wake up.
I won’t hear your soft, relaxed breath and see you smile when I come into the room.
I will no longer get to keep you company while you sleep.
I will no longer get to carry you.
I will no longer get to see you healthy and whole.
I will no longer get to teach you, and I will never get to see you get married and have babies of your own.
I will never get to experience the many milestones of your life.
But I will never ever forget you.
Or who you were.
I hope and pray and wish that you will one day be healed by God.
That He will use you in amazing ways.
It was the hardest day at work. In a while, it will be 24 hours since you are awake. You’re on your way home.
Your eyes feel as if you should have them closed. A phone call from your boss makes it all worse.
“You better get on the airplane immediately. They’ve found your son.”
For several long minutes, your wife is in shock. You put on your best face, but know you’ll break down.
Then the lights go out. You’re blindfolded and taken somewhere you don’t want to go.
In a second, you realize you’re the only one awake. You can’t hear anything. Your head feels as if it’s about to burst. You lose track of time. Finally, your blindfold is removed. The last thing you hear is one of the doctors calling your name.
“We did everything we could for him. He’s gone.”
“I can’t get the words out, ” you hear yourself say.
“I’m so sorry. He’s in a better place.”
For the rest of the day and into the night, it’s hell. What could be more horrible?
“Why did they let you go back?” you ask.
“He looked fine. There was no reason for us to worry.”
They are lying. They knew it. A small smile crosses their lips. You know better.
“We’re not done.”
Who can blame them? It was a horrifying day.
The next day, when you wake up, you realize you can”t remember anything that happened that day.