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Hand-in-hand, Rob and I emerged through the doors that we had come to know so well for the past three weeks. The hall seemed to go on forever.  We turned the corner and there they stood, a small gathering with heavy shoulders: my mother, Rob’s parents, our aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, and familiar hospital staff.  I lowered my head into my mother’s outreached arms and said, “He’s gone.” The tears and the breathy cries made my body shake with precision.  “I’m sorry” is all I heard and then some turned away, others came to join the hug, while a few sat in stunned silence.  The air was heavy with darkness, but the sun had not yet lowered behind the horizon. A few whispers broke the barriers of tearful condolences. Hands reached to touch mine. Hugs migrated from one to the next.  Embraces that were strong and deep, while other arms were reserved or protective. I took the gift of contact and let my body sink into their touch. “They did everything. I am so sorry”, I cried. I felt pain for all of them as they too had lost a grandson, a nephew, a cousin, or even a beloved patient. They were mourning their own loss.

Stepping away, I felt drawn by a magnetic pull so heavy on me to go back, to hold him. The memory of his face had already faded. How could that be happening so quickly? I can see him, but yet I can’t, I thought panicking. Dark hair, for sure, and his lip was misshapen from the tubes and ventilator. He had eyebrows…”I have to go now,” I mumbled as I slowly walked backwards once again facing all the grief. I wanted to run, time was slipping and it would really be over soon. Everyone just stood there and watched me leave. Rob stayed behind. Logistics, I was sure. But I needed to hold my baby. Rock my baby. Honor my baby. Say goodbye to my baby. 

I needed to say, “I love you”, one more time.