July 21, 2011

I am having what I call a “rough” day.  In reality, each of the last 41 days has been rough, but some are more unbearable than others.  Today is one of those days.  I just woke up feeling sad and empty.  I woke up missing Max.  I woke up angry that he wasn’t lying beside me, ready to have his diaper changed and eat a little bit.  I want my baby back.  [Please don’t sing that Chili’s song about baby back ribs.]  I seriously want him back.  On days like this, I wonder how in the world I’m going to function when I go back to work in a few weeks.  It was so hard to get Ethan ready for school and actually take him this morning, so how am I going to drag myself to school when I have days like this?  Right now, I can’t imagine standing in front of a room full of teenagers and holding it together for 50 minutes.  I suppose I’ll find a way.  I have to.  I don’t know how I’m going to react to being back at work.  I never know how I’ll react to anything anymore.  That’s one of the parts that I hate the most—being unpredictable.  I hate pretty much every part of this, but that unpredictability has been tough to adjust to.  I don’t know how I’ll react to the students (and maybe even a few coworkers) who don’t know what happened to Max.  I hope I can be strong, and I think I can, but who knows.  What I do know is that I have a lot of true friends at work who will be understanding and helpful when I have days like this.  I am so thankful for that.

I started to write some thank you cards yesterday.  I got two done.  That’s how effective I’ve been lately.  One of the cards was to Ethan’s school, Brookridge Day School.  I can’t even begin to express how wonderful they have been to us.  I always heard from teachers and administrators there that Brookridge was like a family, and I know what they meant now.  When I sat down to write the card, my mind flashed back to late May when I sat down to write another thank you card to them.  Max sat in his car seat, watching me patiently.  I wrote in that card about how thankful we were for everything that the teachers, staff, and administration had done for Ethan.  He entered Brookridge as a shy, timid little boy.  He left a confident, outgoing “big kid.”  This school is seriously amazing.  They have the most dedicated staff who I now know will truly do anything for one of the members of this beautiful “family” that they’ve created.  I looked at Max during a break from writing, and I thought about the day when he would walk through the doors at Brookridge for his first day of preschool.  I imagined how excited everyone would be to see us, but really how excited they would be to see Max all grown up and following in his brother’s footsteps.  I could hear them saying, “Last time I saw you, you were just a little baby!  Look how big you are now!”  I wrote in that thank you card that I looked forward to sending Max to Brookridge too.  I’m sad that he won’t experience the miracles that Brookridge performs every day, but I’m glad that he got to be part of the family for 37 days.

Obviously, writing the thank you card to Brookridge after Max’s death was quite a different experience.  I was happy the first time; the second time I was miserable.  I tried to express our gratitude to them, but I know we’ll never be able to.  After Max died, the staff at Brookridge huddled around us to provide whatever support and comfort we needed.  They sent flowers, they came to services, they welcomed Ethan back to the summer program with a cheering section, and they offered to have him back for kindergarten.  Ethan was going to go to Stanley Elementary just a few blocks from our house.  We worried about being able to afford the tuition at Brookridge plus childcare, so we decided to send him to Stanley.  After the events of this summer, how could we send him anywhere besides Brookridge?  He needs to be surrounded by loving, supportive people who know exactly what he’s been through this summer.  There isn’t a place in the world that I feel comfortable sending Ethan to right now besides Brookridge. 

The second thank you card that I wrote was to one of the first police officers to arrive at our house after Max died.  Her name is Chandra Kelly.  I got a list of every officer who was at our house the day that Max died because I want to send each of them a thank you card.  I didn’t really know how to go about getting their names besides requesting a copy of the police report, and I have absolutely no desire to see the police report right now.  I actually have a very strong desire to NOT see the police report.  I got a letter last week stating that the evidence collected from our home had been released and was ready for pick up.  I smartly made the choice to pick up the evidence on the way to my meeting with my new grief counselor.  The woman who met me at the door to the police station and handled the paperwork cried with me as she listed the items to be released:  a baby bottle and its contents, a small blanket, and a pacifier.  She handled the sealed paper bags with great care, as if Max himself was inside each one.  I guess a part of him really is in those bags.  His saliva is still on each of those items.  He may have even left a few hairs behind on the blanket.  Her kindness made me think of the way that we were treated by every law enforcement officer who responded to our 911 call.  I’m telling you, people have it all wrong about cops.  Maybe we just got lucky, but I don’t think so.  I think they have a real desire to help and protect, and it kills them when they can’t do that for a baby like Max.  It kills everyone, but it’s their job, just like it was mine as a parent.  Anyway, the woman helping me that morning was heartbroken for me.  I feel badly that her day had to start that way.  She had brought Kleenex with her when she saw that I was collecting evidence from the scene of my son’s death.  I’m glad she did because we needed them.  She wrote down the names of the police officers who had been at our house on June 10^th, and apologized for her sloppy handwriting that wasn’t sloppy at all.  I wish I would have gotten her name.  She deserves a thank you too.   

I really am the queen of digressions…back to Officer Kelly.  Her job that morning was to stand outside of our front door.  I think this was done in lieu of putting up yellow crime scene tape, which we greatly appreciate.  Officer Kelly had the unfortunate job of greeting our friends and family who showed up.  As far as I know, this included Nicole and my parents.  Nicole arrived first.  She told me later that she had convinced herself on the way to our house that I had said, “Max is gone.” instead of “Max is dead.”  We both know that I actually did say the latter, but she convinced herself that morning that Max had been kidnapped and that we would be working on finding him and getting him back alive instead of planning his funeral and everything that came after it.  So, I assume that Officer Kelly was the one who had to break Nicole’s heart with the truth.  Just a reminder—this all happened early in the morning on Nicole’s birthday.  She actually didn’t answer her phone the first few times I called because she thought I was just being annoying and trying to wish her a happy birthday.  When I called her fiance’s phone, she knew that wasn’t the case.  Because infant deaths are immediately (and understandably) investigated, our house was treated as a crime scene.  People weren’t allowed in, and we weren’t really allowed out until the investigation was complete.  Part of Officer Kelly’s job that day was to explain to my best friend and parents that they couldn’t come in to be with us until the investigation was complete.  I can’t even imagine how heartbreaking it was for her to stand on our front porch and turn Max’s loved ones away.  I know it was hard for her; I saw her tear up several times.  I’m sure that she wanted to be able to say the right thing to comfort Max’s grandparents and honorary aunt, but what do you say?  She did what she could, and I’m so appreciative for that.  Officer Kelly was empathetic, compassionate, and thoughtful in the way she handled Nicole and my entire family (myself and Scott included).  I know that these types of cases are probably the hardest for police officers and firefighters, and I thank them for having the strength to deal with such tragedy in a professional, yet kind manner. 

Since Max’s death, we’ve met many (too many) other families who have lost babies and dealt with the aftermath, including the intense investigations.  There is a lot to be said about how investigations into sudden infant deaths are treated, but this post is already too long, so I’ll save it for another day.  I will say that Max laid on our living room floor for two hours after he was pronounced dead by the first firefighters on the scene.  During that two hours, Scott and I were escorted to different areas of our house by another police officer.  I believe his name is Officer Hill.  I’m sure he has a first name, but I don’t know it.  Ethan was still sleeping in his bed, and we didn’t want him coming out of his room because Max’s lifeless body was visible from the top of the stairs (right next to Ethan’s room).  Officer Hill understood this and stood outside of Ethan’s room, blocking the stairway so that Ethan wouldn’t see Max when he woke up and emerged from his room.  Officer Hill repeatedly apologized to us for having to follow us everywhere and keep us inside.  He apologized for the pain that we were going through.  I know that Officer Hill hated being at our house and seeing the raw emotions of that day.  He probably hated seeing Max’s body lying on the floor for so long.  He probably hated everything about it, but he was so kind to us.  No matter how many times we told him that we understood that he was just doing his job and we weren’t upset by it, he still just kept apologizing.  What a gift for a police department to have such an empathetic officer.  Officer Hill came to Max’s visitation.  He sat in the back and didn’t talk to anyone, but I saw him there remembering Max and sending his support to us.  I’m glad he was there.

I’ve really got to stop because this is getting ridiculously lengthy.  Hopefully I haven’t lost the attention of too many readers yet…I will write more about the day that Max died later, but for now I just want to share a few more words about the investigators and firefighters who responded that day.  The firefighters got here less than five minutes after we placed the 911 call.  They worked quickly and furiously to save Max, but we all knew.  Still, they tried their hardest.  And I’m sure that each of them begged and pleaded, just like I did, for some kind of miracle.  I’ll never forget the sadness and pain in each of their eyes.  Their posture changed, like they were trying to hold their hearts together somehow.  I know that doesn’t make sense, but that’s what I remember it looking like.  They were all in my home witnessing the single worst moment of my entire life, and I’m sure they hated every second of it.  How could they not?  They watched a mother and father being told that their life’s purpose was gone forever.  They watched a mother and father feverishly shake their heads and scream “No.”  They must have seen the looks in our eyes—searching, pleading, confused, devastated.  I’m sorry that they had to see that.  I have a surprise planned for the firefighters.  It’s nothing big, but it’s something from the heart.  I’ll share later.

Like the firefighters, the police officers were all incredibly kind and compassionate.  No one knew what to say or do, but they somehow found the strength to stick around and talk with us.  The detectives had to interview us, but I’m not sure I could even repeat one question that they asked us.  It is such a blur now.  The term “foggy memory” has taken on a new meaning for me.  When I try to picture sitting on the floor in our bedroom with the detectives, there is literally fog in the room in my memory.  Obviously, this can’t be a true recollection of the scene, but I can’t shake it from my memory.  I do remember our detectives being very sympathetic and apologetic, just like Officer Hill.  I think I remember them saying that they were both parents, but I could have just imagined that.  I know that their job was hard that day.  They did it thoroughly but quickly so that we could be with our family and friends.  Detective Fizer came to Max’s visitation.  He came through the line and greeted us.  He hugged us, and I think he may even have been crying.  I’m not sure though.  He told us how sorry he was for us and that Detective Wedel was so sorry that she wasn’t able to make it.  I have no idea who, if any, of the responders came to the funeral.  I didn’t really have the strength to face the crowd.  It means a lot to us that some of them came though, and I know those who couldn’t make it were thinking of us and probably praying for us.  I have heard horror stories from other parents about the investigations that took place after their children died.  Many felt accused by the investigators, and most say that the responders were heartless and almost cruel.  I am so thankful that our experience was the complete opposite.  We were in good hands that day, and so was Max.