Right Where She Belongs

My mom, Tex, and I were sitting in the surgery waiting room anxiously watching the screen that lets families know the status of the procedure. Anesthesia started, procedure started, anesthesia stopped. Watching that screen will drive you mad but you can't help but look. As most can assume, babies don't like change or to be sitting in the same place for an extended period of time, so we decided to go out into the hall and change up the scenery. Eric, the most amazing human being at the hospital, came by and told us surgery went incredibly well and that the surgeon was finishing up. The surgeon then met up with me at the gift shop. He had said the same as Eric. Surgery went better than expected. After a few minutes, I noticed I had a missed call from the hospital. I had just spoken with Eric and the surgeon so I wasn't too alarmed, but I headed back to the waiting room to check on things anyway. The nurse stated that there was a problem. Bunny's stats went crazy and they were working on her. It felt like forever had passed before I got another update. A gentleman calmly walked into the waiting area and called for the family of the Walden patient. I excitedly jumped up and proceeded to follow him out the door. This, as I knew from previous experience, was the moment I would be led back to my girl. She would be awake and smiling, calling out my name. That's not what happened. As soon as the door shut behind us, the gentleman said, "We need to move quickly," and took off running. At this point, my heart sunk. He continued to ask if Bunny had a DNR. She does. The hospital knew that. The surgeons knew that. The nurses knew that. Everyone knew she had a DNR. The bright, bold, red letters were stamped all over her chart, DNR. In that moment, all I could say was, "No." We blasted through two doors as if the our lives depended on it. Then, I saw her. I saw them. I saw the tubes, her pale gray, blue skin. I saw the machines pumping life into her. Echoing around me was, "Mom says no DNR. Keep going." She was slipping. How could this be happening? She was perfectly fine 15 minutes prior. Surgery was a success. Eric said so. Twice. I text my mom angrily. I told her they brought me back for the above reasons. She said to hold her and pray. That's exactly what I did. They got the tube back in and blood sprayed everywhere. Panic set in around me. "Get the surgeon back in here now," the anesthesiologist yelled. "She's a full code." I watched as the nurse pumped the bag of life into my precious child. Every pump kept her here. Kept her holding on. She doesn't deserve this. Her dad and I swore we would never put her through this. I took her hand and prayed, "Take her, Lord. If it's Your will, take her now. Don't let her suffer. Don't drag this out. She's Yours. I have had six miraculous years with her knowing she belongs to You. Make it stop, God. Don't let her go like this. Let her be at peace." The room was silent. Alarms were sounding, people were shuffling, but all we could hear in that one moment was the slightest, sweetest little whimper. She's in there! She's fighting! She wasn't done yet. Her journey wasn't over. At that moment, I knew she could do it. Her surgeon ordered that she be taken to a room. Not the ICU, but a room. I met back up with my mom and Tex and we whisked off to a room on the all familiar 10th floor. Bunny is known there. It's her home away from home. We reached the room and shortly after, the princess rolled in. She was awake. She looked phenomenal being that she almost just lost her life. We settled in and that was that. The morning after surgery, Bunny had a series of scans completed to check on the status of her newly placed accessory, the shunt. The day went on uneventfully. Nothing major occurred. There was talk among the staff that Bunny would be released today. Say what?? I'll take it! My mom headed out and the babies and I hung out. Nothing too exciting. The adrenaline had finally worn off and I was feeling it. Tex and I decided to grab some food. Bunny was resting, so we headed downstairs. When we got back to the room, the Buns was MIA. The nurse informed me that she was taken for an MRI. Red flag! This wasn't discussed previously. No one had mentioned an MRI. It couldn't have been thirty minutes after Bunny returned to the room that the surgeon walked in with his entourage. Bunny's surgeon is by far the most serious, straight-to-business man I've ever met. He never sits down. He never asks questions. He tells you what's going to happen and walks away. Today though, he had a look on his face. One I had never seen him express before. Disappointment. He began speaking in the most genuine tone. "I failed her." He proceeded to tell me that while the surgery went flawlessly, the aftermath caused damage. She'll never advance beyond where she's at now. Her MRI showed more damage than what appeared before surgery. Sure, the shunt was in place and working properly, the pressure on her brain would decrease slowly, but the damage was irreversible. His recommendation? Take her home and love her. Love her like we've never loved her before, and let her know we know she's tired. Let her know we will understand when she can't fight any longer. So here we are, at home loving her. While our faith in God will never stop, we also know His plan is going to trump ours. When He's ready for Bunny to go back Home, there's nothing we'll be able to do to stop it. For now, we're going to continue doing what we've been doing for six years. We're going to believe in her, love her, and let her lead the way. We pray for many more years with our girl, but more than anything, we want her to know love. To know that we are so incredibly proud of her. To know that no matter what, we will follow her lead. To know that when she can't fight any longer, when she feels ready, we will hold her, love her, and let her go peacefully. Tonight, Bunny is right where she belongs. In her home, in her bed, sleeping peacefully, surrounded by love.