Tuesday began, shifts changed, and Denise was back to take over from Sara. The overwhelming priority of all my actions was making sure that Ayden fulfilled his mission to save as many lives as possible. I dutifully and expeditiously moved every time someone needed to get to Ayden’s left side. Within that service, my sole hope was to comfort his body until the very end. I had come to believe that Ayden’s body was grieving the loss of his spirit, that it was my job to be the caretaker of his body, and to supplant the love that his spirit used to give to his body. I considered it an sacred honor and it became a transcendent experience. I consciously and subconsciously, physically and metaphysically built and maintained connections for the spiritual nourishment of my son’s body.
I began to settle into the hospital room and the moment. I began to regularly kiss Ayden’s face and hands in addition to constantly holding his hands. He wasn’t complaining, and so I took full advantage of the opportunity. I kissed his face and his head, hugged him long, and held his face close to mine. His earlobes were so soft. I sniffed his hair, and I rubbed his hands on my face—all things Ayden would never let me do in normal times.
The Organ Donor Network kept me updated on the scheduling, and it was becoming clear that Ayden would be with me until Thursday. I began to truly appreciate the time I had left and knew that the next few days would be seminal in my life. I relished each moment—holding hands, kissing his face, praying with my son. Everything outside the hospital room didn’t matter. Time was different. It slowed down and became more meaningful than anything I’d previously experienced. I began to talk to Ayden in more than just repeated sentences. I was able to tell him everything I had to say. I talked and I talked. Then I prayed, and always, I held his hand. I loved to listen to his heart beat. Every few hours, a nurse would use a handheld ultrasound to check his pulse in various parts of his body. Here is Ayden’s right foot heart beating.
I was consumed by an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I was so incredibly grateful that I got to know this special person. Part of me could have just kept Ayden like this. His body was warm and felt like my son. I could envision living like this for a longer time, but in my heart, I knew this wouldn’t last. I knew that people’s lives were on the line, waiting for my son.
Sometime during the late morning or early afternoon, Ayden’s left thumb began to twitch. I confirmed with the nurse that he was no longer having seizures. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but it happened regularly. No other part of his body ever moved again on its own, but his left thumb would twitch and move.
I became more convinced than ever that Ayden’s body was grieving the loss of his spirit and that it was connecting with me for comfort and companionship. I imagined my spirit entering Ayden’s hand to nourish his body. I knew in my soul that Ayden’s body was talking to me through his thumb and that it needed me—maybe as much as I needed him, maybe more. It was a communication so primal that thought wasn’t required. The touch of a father and son bound together in mutual embrace in the last days of life.
It was supposed to be him holding my hand and kissing my face as I lay dying.
Tuesday became Tuesday night, and the rhythm of the ventilator kept us together…
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