After bringing Kolby home on Sunday night, things began to become difficult Teusday. When giving a baby food through a feeding tube you have to pull the contents of the stomach back out in order to measure digestion. Kolby was giving us back quite a bit of food, eight to twelve cubic centimeters. This was making him uncomfortable as well, he couldn't breathe as freely as he had been.
We fought the digestion trouble through out the day, and noticed that his stools had decreased also. It appeared that his digestive system was shutting down. Nonetheless, Kolby remained alert.
Finally, at the eleven P.M. feeding, Mom found a full diaper and he gave us back very lttle food. He rested peacefully after a long day, and so did we. The girls had been sick, so we wondered if Kolby had captured a bit of the flu himself. But now everything was OK.
At the two A.M. feeding, Dad had a full diaper again, and he gave back a moderate amount of food. Kolby's color looked good, and his breathing was as calm as it had ever been. Dad went back to sleep.
When five o'clock rolled around, Mom found Kolby resting peacefully with good color. Once again, he gave her a good diaper and an acceptable amount of food back. Mom held Kolby for a while and then began his feeding. She went back to bed herself, resting as peacefully as she had since coming home from the hospital. Kolby was well. She could now rest easy.
Dad heard the feeding alarm at seven o'clock in the morning, which indicated that his feeding was done. Mom slept through the alarm, so dad got up and shut it off. He leaned down and smiled to see Kolby sleeping peacefully, his respirations as soft as they'd ever been. He yawned, and exhausted after several long days, returned to bed knowing that in an hour Mom and Dad's alarm clock would ring for the eight o'clock feeding.
Mom and Dad slept that last hour in complete peace. The past few days had been chaotic, and they anticipated the morning and the joy that they could share with Kolby. On the night that they had brought Kolby home, their youngest daughter had a high fever and had been up all night. She had vomited everywhere, and both parents were worn to the bone in caring for the other children along with Kolby. It had taken a few days to recover, and that wednesday morning both parents were rested, the kids were healthy again, and the day held promise to be a wonderful opportunity to hold Kolby all day, and give him all the attention he required.
Mom woke up when the alarm rang at eight A.M. She could not see any respirations in Kolby. His color looked good, and his temperature was normal. She put on the stethoscope and could find no heartbeat. She woke Dad up saying, "I think Kolby's gone!" Dad shot up from bed and raced into the dining room where Kolby lay. He confirmed that there was no heartbeat. They picked Kolby up, turned up his oxygen, and tried frantically to stimulate him, but there was no response.
"He's gone." Dad said. After a while, Dad turned off the oxygen. It was over.
Kolby's death was not a surprise. Yet, we were shocked by it. He had been doing so well, but he apparently just became too tired and could no longer fight. We had truly hoped to make it until Christmas, but that was not to be.
When something like this happens, your mind teases itself with millions of "what if's" and "if only's." What if, for instance, when Dad had turned off the seven o'clock feeding alarm, he had picked Kolby up and held him instead of returning to bed? What if?
Of course we know that thinking this way is fruitless. We try not to do it. What is, is. And that is it. We can do nothing, and nothing can be done. It is finished, and Kolby has gone home.
How we would have loved to have had more time with him! Yet, we did have thirteen days with him; thirteen more than we were supposed to have had. Those days were nothing but pure joy, let us tell you! The pain we feel now is the most intense pain that we have ever felt in our lives. We feel as if our heart is gone, and there is no more soul inside. We wonder why God would allow this sort of suffering, as good and just as God is supposed to be. We wonder if faith will ever flow from our hearts again! But mostly, we just cry. We miss him. Mom said the other day that there really is no point anymore in having any family pictures taken, someone will always be missing from them. And Dad see's her point. We both hurt so much.
But this is grief. Grief can only flow where there was once love. Grief is love's loss, and love's pain. In an odd sense, we are recognizing how closely connected love and grief, joy and sorrow, hope and fear are. It seems that one cannot exist without the other in God's world.
There is still happiness in our home. The other children laugh and play as if nothing had ever happened. This, too, is fitting for us. We will be thankful for Kolby as long as we live, and we suspect, even afterwards. He lived. He breathed. He changed us. For that we are thankful.
