Peace and rest

Last friday...

I should be sleeping, or packing, or spending a last few precious minutes with friends. But instead I can only grieve.

I got the call this afternoon, just as I settled down for a little packing and then a post night-shift nap. "Hey Laura...Brian just died. I know you took care of him a lot so we wanted to let you know, you're welcome to come down to the ward." He was 5 months old, and weighed 7 pounds. A whole month of his short life he spent aboard the big white Mercy box with tubes and oxygen and monitors so he could eat and breathe. Was it only a month ago God had reached out his mighty hand and allowed him to breathe again before we put down a tube and began to breathe for him?

Last night he was my baby again, swallowed up in the big ICU bed as he fought for each breath-80, 90, 100 times a minute. Bits and pieces of shift report from the charge nurse floated through my mind, "his heart is enlarged because it's so hard for him to breathe...can't tolerate CPAP again...we talked to his mama already...no heroic measures...he would never come back off the vent...only a matter of time now." I lived the long shift in moments and in breaths. It was a constant prayer: to get back in the IV catheter he had pulled out in his struggles, for healing again, to stop his vomiting and bring down the fever, and with each rapid breath that he would take another one. By midnight I had stopped praying for miraculous healing, and in a desperate "your will be done," I prayed for peace and rest for my little boy...whatever it takes.

He settled only in the safety and security of my arms, so I sat and we cuddled. Sharon and Clare peeked in on my other sleeping patients, brought me food and water, while I whispered to Brian of his mama's love and sang him a promise...

You will be safe in His arms

You will be safe in His arms

'Cause the hands that hold the world are holding your heart

This is the promise He made

He will be with You always

When everything is falling apart

You will be safe in His arms

And we had a small miracle. He rested and slept. The hot little body stayed snuggled in my arms, the oxygen blowing reassuringly in his face and hand curled in trust around my index finger, and he slept.

While in my head I know that baby Brian is better off snuggled happily in the arms of God, eating and drinking on his own and breathing effortlessly, my heart cries for the little mama going home with empty arms and the baby that never had a chance to live. We helped his mama bathe the tiny gray body, dressed him in a white fleece jumper and warm hat, and mingled our tears with hers. She called for each of her nurses by name, those of us who weren't there already, and we filled the room to sing and pray and show her in a language without words that they were dearly loved.

It may not be the miracle that I would have asked for. We had one healing, and like a greedy child I demand why we didn't have another. And while I don't understand it, I pray that it is enough. The extra time Brian's mama had with us, to open her heart to Jesus. An extra month of love with a broken little boy. The terrible, amazing thing is that my desperate constant prayer of that night has been answered in full. Brian has been healed, fully and forever, and he is finally at peace.