I have a bereavement support group that I join every Wednesday at noon. Most of the group meet in person, but they meet in Indianapolis, so I joined them virtually. They were anxious to hear about the new baby, and I was surprised at how emotional I got just telling a very condensed story of the birth, and the baby. I cannot get over how close I came to losing them. It is only by the grace of God that they are both here. When Nick was in the delivery room, he told Joanna that when they asked him if he wanted to go see their new baby, he had to walk past Joanna and go to the other side of the curtain that protected his eyes from what was going on. He said that there was blood everywhere, that it was all over the doctors, on the floor, that it was running across the floor towards his foot. He could see inside his wife, as the doctors worked frantically on her. By the time he got to their baby, they were taking her away, to the NICU.

Joanna said that after the baby was born, and they briefly showed her to Joanna, that she began to feel very strange. Joanna said that she felt extremely tired, drained. She felt like she had to fight that feeling though, she knew in her gut that she had to fight to stay awake and to not give in to that feeling, perhaps a feeling of dying. She said that she called out weekly, “help,” but no one responded. Then she said,”please help me, I don’t want to die,” but again, no one spoke to her. They just continued working on her, saying things to each other, thanking a person for bringing a bag of blood, thanking another for doing something else. So she just continued to fight quietly to stay awake. To live for her baby. And she did it, she made it. And no one can convince me that she was not in danger that night of dying. It is no small thing to lose half the blood in one’s body and to live.

This evening, for some reason I was reminded of a time when Billy was very sick. He had a bad infection, and he had sepsis. His fever was very high, and he was not in his right mind. We went to the emergency room, and they were beginning to assess him when his blood pressure dropped to 55 over 27, and his pulse was over 200. His temperature was almost 105. They rushed him to a procedure room in the ER, and a doctor attempted to put a PICC line in Billy’s neck to access his juggler in order to administer an IV to increase his blood pressure. Billy was fighting against it, and I watched as four nurses stood around him as the doctor tried to do the work. We were all trying to calm Billy down, to get him to lay perfectly still so that the doctor could get the PIC line in correctly. They had him tented, and the tent went over his face which was making him very anxious. One of the nurses raised the tent from his face and spoke to him kindly, and he was able to lie still. They packed his body with ice, in his armpits under his knees, in his groin, behind his neck. It was then that they noticed something was wrong with one of his legs. He had an infection. Eventually he would have a large chunk of his leg cut out in order to save his life and to remove the infected tissue. There were so many times like this, when I was a witness to the things that he had to endure. The sicknesses, the fevers, the infections, the surgeries. He was so brave, always. And I was there, praying, trying to be supportive as best as I could. And terrified. I wish I had the words to describe the intensity of what I saw that night, and what I saw so many other nights. I guess you just have to be there to understand. As much as I wish that Billy were here, I wish even more that he would never suffer. And I think that’s the only way that I can deal with my loss. If I’m dealing with my loss at all that is. I miss him.

And while he was in the ER, and his blood pressure was crashing, and I was praying, a nurse crouched down next to me and asked me if Billy had a do not resuscitate order in place. She asked me if I would like to put one in place for him. I told her to get away from me. I told her, not now. Get behind me, Satan.