I started the Capture Your Grief challenge on Instagram this year as my way of trying to share what it’s like to grieve losing a child. What I didn’t realize was how much it would make me think about aI started the Capture Your Grief challenge on Instagram this year as my way of trying to share what it’s like to grieve losing a child. What I didn’t realize was how much it would make me think about nd process certain parts of my grief. Parts I didn’t know were there. Parts that I avoided. Parts that were locked deep in the recesses of my mind. I don’t know who started this challenge and what their reasoning was. But, whoever you are, thank you. I have grieved more heavily this month but I have also been finally able to close the door on some of the more traumatic parts of my grief that I have been avoiding.
The final prompt is the word “sunset.” Sunset signals the ending of a day. For some people the end of a day is the closing of a chapter in their lives. It has a sense of finality as the sun sinks low behind the horizon and the darkness sets in. There was nothing more final than the last time Judah crashed.
I had spent the day creating freezer meals and having lunch with a friend, all while being on the phone most of the time with Judah’s nurse trying to convince the doctors to give him a fluid bolus. He seemed to be dehydrated, according to the nurse, and she said she was receiving pushback from the doctors about giving him one since his input/output numbers were fine.
I will never forget his little face as I walked in his room that day. He saw me and just started to cry. It was a cry I had never heard before. It was different. Something was incredibly wrong. His mouth was open, and, try as I may, I couldn’t get him to close it. His eyes were pleading with me to fix it. I don’t know what it was he wanted me to fix. I held him as he continued to cry. I kept calling the nurse in to take a look at him because something was off. She was busy admitting a new patient and fluttered in and out of Judah’s room. At one point I noticed Judah looked a little dusky in color so she gave me some oxygen for him. He was throwing his head back and forth so I couldn’t keep the cannula up his nose. The nurse must have called for the doctor because he walked in the room. And just as he did, Judah went limp in my arms and turned completely blue. They called a code and so many people flew into his room while we were pushed out. And in that moment, I knew it was over. I just wasn’t ready to admit it.
This began a rather tumultous 36 hours of panic attacks, tears, and being told, after calling everything 30 minutes that night to check on him, that there was nothing more to be done to save our baby. We kept fighting. We weren’t ready to let the sun set on this chapter of our lives. But, in the end, we had to let him go. Logically, I know, he would’ve never recovered fully. He wouldn’t have been the same sweet baby. But in my heart, I never wanted to let go.
This was the last lesson he demonstrated to us with his life – how to let go. It’s not easy. We don’t like letting go, whether it’s our child, a job, a house, a pet, or even just an old possession that really doesn’t serve any purpose any more. Let me tell you this, friends – letting go is incredibly hard and sometimes we don’t have a choice. But pray, seek, and let go. There is nothing in this world that God cannot restore to us. Judah is waiting, just on the other side of heaven’s gates, for his mama and daddy to join him. And often, when we let go, God has something bigger and better in store for us (side note – this is not true of children at all – every child is a wonderful, precious gift that can never be replaced). Let go of those things that are holding you down and holding you back from God’s will for you life. And in doing so, you will feel so incredibly free (again, not talking about children here).
I’m often ashamed to admit this, but after the initial shock of knowing that I had just held my baby as he passed away and that he was gone from this world, I felt relief. That’s right, relief. Our incredibly tiring, painful journey was finally over. Judah didn’t hurt anymore. I didn’t have to spend day in and day out learning new medical terms, new ways to keep my baby infection free, trying to get as much done at home as I could before rushing to the hospital, living in constant fear of my son’s life. He was free from pain and I was free from constant struggle, toil, and worry about protecting his little life.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. I’m walking a similar (albeit much tamer) version of this journey with Judah’s little brother, Arthur, who has a rare condition called Food Protein Induced Enterocolitis Syndrome (FPIES). I would have a thousand surgeries if it meant that Judah lived. I would sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair eating bad food and not taking care of myself for a thousand years if it meant that every single day I got to hold my sweet baby close. This wasn’t God’s plan, however. And I believe, in giving me the emotion of relief, God was showing me that this was how it was supposed to go.
Is it wrong that Judah is gone, his life cut short after only 6 months and 2 days on this earth? Yes. Babies shouldn’t die. Parents shouldn’t have to bury their children. But I believe in God’s plan more than I believe in what’s fair. I don’t know why Judah had to die. What I do know is what I’ve been told by others – how Judah helped them renew their faith, encouraged them, made them laugh, made them smile, and made them cry. I have heard how he changed them. And I believe that is why God put him on this earth. And I believe I was put on this earth to be Judah’s mama, to carry on his legacy, and to tell his story. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.
So the next time you look at a sunset, sit back and wonder what it is you could be letting go in favor of God’s will for you. Whether it’s unnecessary busyness or just something that’s cluttering up your house, pray, seek God’s will, and then open your hands and let it go.
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February 12, 2019© 2022 Broken Beautiful Mamahood. All rights reserved.
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