The phone rang at 9:21 am on a Sunday morning. I jumped up to answer it, hoping that it was Ayden calling to check in. Instead, it was the Mad River emergency room. I’d had a few of these calls before, and generally, when the emergency room calls, it’s a sign that Ayden is ready to be picked up. The person introduced themselves as the same person who had called for Ayden the previous week. That time, I just called a cab to pick him up. I asked the person if I should send another taxi, and he replied that I should get down to the emergency room. I asked if Ayden was okay, and he said that Ayden was intubated and that I should get down there.
I panicked and asked what intubated meant, and he replied that Ayden was breathing with the assistance of a machine.
I screamed a desperate “FUCK” into the phone and hung up. I knew what this meant. He’d already been through two fentanyl overdoses in the last six months. I hurried to the hospital, just wondering how bad it was. When I arrived at the hospital, I was greeted outside by hospital staff. They told me it was best to quickly update me outside. A nurse explained that my son had been found unresponsive from a likely fentanyl overdose and had been without oxygen for at least 20 minutes.
My heart sank…
I instantly knew what this meant. He then went on to explain that as soon as Ayden was brought to the hospital, he was given a CT scan. He relayed that, upon the initial CT scan, Ayden had brain damage and swelling equivalent to a typical healthy adult who experiences 15 minutes of oxygen loss after three days. He told me that the likelihood of my son’s survival was less than 1% and that if he did survive, he would never be the same person. He would never walk or talk again.
My world imploded…
I went in and touched Ayden, but it was hard to even look at him. His body was still seizing, and he looked like he was in great pain. All I could do was think to reach out and start making calls. I immediately knew that if anyone wanted to see Ayden while he still had breath in his body, they had to act with haste.
Between 10:14 am and 11:21 pm, I placed or received a total of 72 calls. Every single one was torture.
They told me that Ayden was a registered organ donor and asked if I would be willing to speak with the Organ Donor Network. It was the last call in the world that I wanted to take, but it was my son’s wish, and I couldn’t refuse—not at this moment when time was of the essence. I just kicked into autopilot and answered every question she asked. It took nearly an hour to complete everything. It was all moving so fast. As the call wrapped up, the ambulance was pulling up to move Ayden to St. Joseph’s Hospital in Eureka, where they could provide better around-the-clock care. I hopped in the front seat to ride with Ayden. They were very concerned that Ayden might not make it through the night. His vitals were all over the place, and they could barely keep his heart beating.
The core of his brain was so damaged that he wasn’t breathing properly on his own. It was an exaggerated breathing combined with seizures. He still looked like he was in so much pain. All I could do was hold his hand and rub his forehead. I couldn’t let go of his hand, and I couldn’t look away from his face. My torture was nothing compared to what was happening to Ayden’s body.
I called St. Bernards and Father D’sa came within 30 minutes to perform Ayden’s last rites. It was a beautiful ceremony and a great weight off my shoulders.
After he left, I told Ayden again and again how proud I was of him and what an incredible son he was. I told him everything good I had to say. Then I told him again and again. Time became different.
The reality started to sink in around 1 or 2 in the afternoon. I was exhausted already and just wanted to sleep, but my baby was in pain.
All I could do was hold his left hand, for hours and hours. His right arm was full of needles and tubes. I rubbed his hand and massaged his head. Then I told him how much I loved him and how proud I was of him, again and again and again. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I knew the last words I said to Ayden were “I love you, call me tomorrow,” and that brought me the tiniest bit of comfort in that moment.
Finally, at some point, maybe around 6 or 7 that evening, I laid my head down on Ayden’s bed, beside our clasped hands, and just began to sob uncontrollably. It had finally set in. I would never hear my son’s voice again, that these would be the last moments I would have with him on this earth.
I can’t explain the desperation of this moment. So I held his hand…
I held his hand and rested my head. I think I may have slept for a few minutes, but around 11:30, I was told by a nurse that some of Ayden’s family was downstairs. I believe it was Anjah, Jahkota, and Mia, along with some other people. The nurse was having trouble remembering all the unusual names. I was told that they were refusing to come up and visit Ayden as long as I was in the room. I could tell they felt horribly uncomfortable asking me to leave.
I reassured them immediately, told them it was okay, that I wanted Ayden to see his family, and I didn’t mind leaving if it meant he got to be with them. In all reality, I was exhausted and just wanted to have a minute alone to think. I was packed up within a few minutes and headed downstairs.
I happen to live about a mile from St. Joseph’s, so I decided to just walk home. I began to think about my life without Ayden, and it was unbearable, but putting one foot in front of the other was my medicine, my only path forward—one step at a time, each step a painful reminder played out in slow motion. I got home around midnight, ate tasteless food, and passed out on the couch in a puddle of tears, listening to Hildegard von Bingen – Voice of the Blood.
And I begrudgingly slept…
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