Taking My Breath Away

There is a jolt to the soul when we experience the death of someone close to us. When it is our child or offspring, we are forever changed and we feel that everything we do, including breathing, is different. We continue to exist, but it is in a different context and we find ourselves wondering if anything - anything besides the death of our child - has any meaning.

The moment of knowledge of that death leaves an indelible mark on our lives. It places a period into the flow of our lives, when we naver wanted anymore than a comma. We give up our breathing for a moment, and then realize that something, most likely our instinct for preservation, has begun our breathing without our recognition.

It isn't just that moment that takes our breath away. It is the recurring moments, the remembering, the reliving, and eventually the recognition that can clearly define the first breath of that child, and the approximate circumstances of the last breath. Perhaps we were not there, but we know that there was indeed one last incident of life, one second in time that transformed that vital, breathing soul into a loved memory.

The birth of each of our three children also took my breath away, and their first cries are indelibly etched in my memory. I was awe-struck by the beginnings of their lives, but each was anticipated for many months.

I was not present when our middle son died, but I stood by the bedside when our oldest son died. Yet, I know that the first death interrupted a happy, vivacious young man who was probably deep in thought about the future minutes, and maybe even his future years. He could be meditative, even quiet, but he left our house that morning with a bounce in his step and laughter on his voice. Others who saw him that morning and early afternoon described his comments about the beautiful day and also described his smile which, whenever it occurred, lit up a room. His last breath was finite, and he was transformed into the next moment in an instant.

I watched our oldest child twenty-two years later as he struggled for life. In the end, he had one machine pumping his heart, and another feeding oxygen into his lungs. His last real breath occurred sometime before the machines were disconnected, because they were all (there were a couple of others as well) sounding alarms telling the medical staff that they were failing in their task of helping a very injured person stay alive. When the machines were disconnected, one by one, the result was only quietness. Eventually that quietness led to silence when the last machine was released from its task. There was no movement, no final breath, no change. He had gone into surgery reciting all of his personal and medical information to the medical staff, even without being asked. He was alert, intelligent and alive. His surgery was a desparate effort to save his life, and it worked for a short time. He did not, however recover consciousness. He would return to surgery several more times in the next 36 hours, but even though his life was saved, it couldn't be sustained. He died three days after his arrival at the hospital. We can define his last moment of obvious vitality, but we can't define the moment that he was transformed from life to death.

For each of my boys, my breath stopped when they died. And, whenever I consider the moment of each of their deaths, my breath is taken away in awe of that transformation.