the end

It happened at ten this morning. His papa had come in to visit, had listened while I explained that Hubert's small body was shutting down, organ by organ. His mama sat on the next bed over, in the same clothes she's worn for the last month, the silent tears tracking down her cheeks. And then, just like that, it was time.

We turned off the medications and disconnected the IV lines. We silenced the alarms and put him in a fresh diaper and I lifted him out of the bed and into his papa's arms. They sat there for a few endless minutes while the ventilator continued its relentless pulse and Hubert's heart slowed and his mama held his feet in her hands.

And then he slipped away. His heart stopped and we turned off the ventilator, took out the tube, removed all the wires and IV cannulas, covering the places with clean white gauze. His papa started to rock him back and forth, back and forth, speaking softly into his son's ears. I looked up at my translator who relayed his words. He is asking the baby to breathe. He says he should breathe now. He says he should try. And in my ear I heard the mother's cry, the same sound they all make when they know it's over. The high, keening wail that voices a grief that should never be felt.

They sat there, the small family, ensconced in their pain, while another translator rocked Hubert's sister to sleep on the other side of the ward. His papa finally looked up, asked us if we could bathe him and surrendered his son into my arms.

I had forgotten how heavy he was. He had been so small when he first came to us, but we had fed him and he had gotten fat and now the weight of him nestled against my chest was almost enough to stop my own breath. I laid him on the bed, and my eyes filled up and my translator chided me. Sis Alice, you must not cry. Don't cry now. I told him that I had done this before, I'd done this too many times before, and I always do it with tears in my eyes. His voice softened. Okay. You can cry. It's okay.

He looked like he was asleep and his curls were soft and fuzzy as I bathed him, removing all the traces of what we had done to him in our struggle to keep him alive. I gave him to his mama and she dressed him, looking startled when his little arms didn't reach through his sleeves like they used to.

One by one, the nurses who had cared for him came into the little sanctuary of his room, sat with his mama, poured out their love and their tears. And over and over I reassured them. It was quick. He went quietly. He was snuggled in with his papa, and he just slipped away. I signed forms and called the appropriate people and cleaned the ICU while my translator taught me how to sing in French, and I told everyone that I saw in the halls that I was fine.

But now I'm back in my cabin, and I can't stop thinking about what Hubie's papa said, right before they left. I want to say thank you, because I have seen the result of your efforts. I know why you are here. You have done well for us. And then they took their dead baby, strapped him to his mama's back so the taxi driver wouldn't charge them more, and they walked down the gangway.

I can see the tears in his papa's eyes, and that slight memory is enough to break me, to send me spinning across the floor in a thousand tiny pieces, my heart in splinters in my hands.

It's going to take some time to mend.