Her Last Day

Once we were moved to the private room Brooklyn was reconnected to all the machines. She tolerated the move and transition to the other ventilator just fine. They bumped her settings way up, pretty much as high as they would go to give us more time with us.

The doctor (Dr. Zebrack, whom I love) was honest with Andy and I. She told us that Brooklyn was not in any pain. They were giving her plenty of pain medication and they made her very comfortable but that she was paralyzed from the amount of medications. She said she didn't know how long we would have with our little girl, but we were welcome to hold and comfort her as long as we wanted to. I asked her to please turn off all the alarms and bells. I couldn't handle the alarms and dinging any longer. They discontinued all non-essential medications at this time. They brought in a chair for us to sit and hold Brooklyn. It was the most uncomfortable thing I've ever sat in... but that didn't matter to me at the time. I just wanted to hold my little girl. The nurses placed a pillow on my lap and they carefully laid a tiny, sweet, sleeping baby on the pillow. She was still dressed in her pretty princess white dress. I held her close. She was freezing. I didn't like that feeling. We gathered up as many blankets as possible and tried to keep her warm. I sat and rocked with her and talked to her and rubbed her hair. I loved her no matter what she looked like.

My mom arrived and later so did Andy's parents. They sat in the room with Brooklyn, Andy, myself and Lynnette. We talked about sweet Brooklyn and cried about what was to come. At some point Andy's brother and sister-in-law also came for a while. It was hard for everyone to see Brooklyn in her condition. But I could see past her weeping eyes and swollen ears and fingers and pictured my beautiful, perfect baby that I met on her birthday. The nurses were able to find some special clay to take some hand and footprints. I had sent Lynnette home to the cottage to pick up Brooklyn's keepsake birth certificate. We hadn't gotten her footprints yet. The nurses got some ink paper from the NICU and they took Brooklyn's hand and footprints for us. They cut a lock of her hair and assembled a special keepsake box for us. The staff took special care of us in our time of despair. I felt nothing but compassion and sympathy from the family I had come to know and love over those 45 days.

After holding Brooklyn for a few hours, all of a sudden something started to change. All of her stats dropped and we feared the worse. We thought it was her time to go. I knew it would happen, but I just couldn't let go... just not yet. I was still hoping for a miracle. I was hoping that the doctor would walk in and tell me that they had made a mistake, they had forgotten to try something that was going to fix her. That never happened. I called the NICU where Aubrey was. I feel sorry for the nurse that had to take that call. I don't even remember who answered the phone and who was her assigned nurse. I told her the situation and that we were losing Aubrey's twin and that she was the only link between Aubrey and Brooklyn. That we were just calling to say good-bye. To please give Aubrey a good-bye kiss from her sissy Brooklyn. That was the hardest call to make. I just can't get over the guilt I have for Aubrey. That she was supposed to grow up with a twin and now she's gone. There were a few tense moments and then she went back up to her previous numbers. She wasn't ready to leave us.

Her heart and body held out through the night. Andy and I took turns holding her. I didn't want her to be alone in her final hours. In the early morning hours I went out to the waiting room to get an hour or so of sleep. I had been so wrapped up in Brooklyn that I hadn't pumped in at least 6-8 hours. My pain didn't matter at that point. Food didn't matter. Only Brooklyn mattered.

After pumping, an hour or two of sleep in two days, I went back in to see Brooklyn. Daddy was holding her and rocking her. I know it had to have felt good to finally be held for so long. This tiny baby laid on a table for 45 days and now on her last day she finally was able to be held for hours at a time. It seems so unfair. Unfair that we didn't get that connection before this point. Two days before her surgery was the only other time she had been held. That was only for 10 or so minutes. So to hold her for this long was so comforting to me and I'm sure to her too. I know she was heavily sedated, but I know she could hear us.

Sometime that morning Dr. Zebrack showed back up. The family left the room and it was only Andy and I. She was kind of surprised that Brooklyn had made it through the night. Then she told us that it might be time to say good-bye. She wasn't going to get any better. In that 24 hours, Brooklyn had become even more swollen and was leaking fluid. It was horrible. Andy and I knew she was right. We asked what would happen. Basically, they would give her plenty of pain medication and then they would remove her breathing tube. I was scared to death that we had to make such a decision to let her go. What if she could recover and we weren't giving her the time she needed? Dr. Zebrack reminded me that she was not producing any urine at this point and that her body just couldn't handle it. There was nothing that they could do to help her. We called our family back into the room so each person could say good-bye. It was so hard. Everyone was emotionally drained and it was hard to hear their good-byes. But, we were all at peace knowing that she was going to a better place and would feel no pain in Heaven. Her heart would be whole and she would never suffer again.