I shot up from my sleep at about 4:30 Monday morning. It took me a moment to remember why I hurt so badly. I called the hospital and confirmed Ayden’s visitors were gone. I hurried to the hospital and arrived to find Ayden breathing easier, his face no longer in such anguish. I asked what had changed, and the nurse, Sara, relayed that Ayden stopped breathing for himself last night at about 3 a.m. and was now only breathing because of a ventilator.
My heart sank…
He was on Keppra to stop the seizures, and it was beginning to work. But it was also a crushing realization that his body was breaking down and didn’t have much time left. His brain had sustained so much damage and was still getting worse.
I was curious and asked Sara how long his visitors stayed last night. She relayed that they were with him for about 30 minutes. I was in shock! It hit me like a ton of bricks that Ayden spent the night alone, with no one to comfort him. I then asked if they had held his hand and comforted him. Sara shared that the younger sister, Mia, was incredibly distraught, sitting in the chair I had left by the bedside, holding his hand, and caressing him. The older siblings and other visitors just stood at the end of the bed, looking at him while talking.
I was reminded of Matthew 26:40: Then he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. ‘Couldn’t you keep watch with me for one hour?‘ The difference is, the disciples had no idea it was Jesus’s last night, Ayden’s siblings knew. It broke my heart for Ayden. His older siblings treated him like he was disposable most of his adult life. He was an alcoholic, but he was still deserving of love.
To be fair, Ayden was not close to his older siblings and they were not on good terms when Ayden passed away. Neither Anjah or Jahkota would even let Ayden sleep in their home and he resented them for that. After Ayden’s 2nd overdose, he went to visit his family in Reno and they left him out on the streets and wouldn’t even let him sleep on a couch. He spent weeks outside, living on the streets of Reno, between Thanksgiving and Christmas of 2024. They were incredibly cruel to him and excused it all because he was an alcoholic and an addict. Ayden was bitter about they way his siblings treated him. Ayden called me from the mental hospital in Reno in desperation. He hadn’t spoken to his siblings in weeks and was at risk of dying from exposure to weather. Thankfully, he checked himself into a mental health facility and found enough clarity to call me. I worked with hospital staff to get Ayden a ticket home. A little more than a month later, Ayden now lay in a hospital bed, days away from his last breaths, abandoned again by his brother and sister.
Ayden couldn’t burn my bridges, they were formed by bonds of love that couldn’t be broken.
All I could do was hold his hand and massage his head. During the morning hours, the pain started to fade a bit more from his face. I think the Keppra stopped the seizures. I continued my mantra of “I love you” and “I’m so proud of you.” I just wanted to comfort Ayden and ease his pain. Everyone was reaching out for updates or to check in on me, but the reality of Ayden’s situation was steadily closing in, and I knew my time was limited.
Denise, our daytime nurse, was incredibly attentive and gentle with Ayden. She answered all of my questions and shared in my grief, telling me about the recent passing of her mother as tears fell down her face.
At about 7 a.m., our donor network nurse, Lacey, came in. She was incredibly empathetic and walked me through the process and what the next few days might look like. Initially, they thought the surgery would either be in San Francisco or possibly at St. Joseph’s on Wednesday. They began the process of testing Ayden and helping his body get into optimal condition for the organ donor surgery. It felt comforting to know that I would have at least two more days with my son. Now that he was only breathing with a ventilator, his condition had stabilized, and the likelihood of him making it to the organ donor surgery was high.
I shared all the good news with Ayden. I told him that he would be saving lives and making many lives better. I joked that he was my hero way before he started saving lives. Neither one of us laughed.
Noon rolled around, and I got another awkward request from the nurse, asking if I would leave so the siblings could visit. Dr. Dieker was just beginning daily rounds and asked that I wait to leave until the rounds were complete. He felt it was important that I be there, but Ayden was the last patient in the ICU for review. I waited, but found it utterly destructive and broke down multiple times. It only confirmed every bad thing that I had considered. Further CT scans revealed irreversible damage from insurmountable amounts of swelling. It was all his brain could do to keep his heart beating. Everyone at St. Joseph’s ICU was both incredibly empathetic and skilled at their profession. I couldn’t have asked for better care for Ayden in his final days. After the rounds were completed, I excused myself so Ayden’s siblings could visit.
I hurried home, drew a bath, and made some food. My wife, Stacey, helped me get some clothes and other things ready. We packed it all in a backpack for my new temporary home the next few days, and I hurried back to the hospital. I checked with Denise, and, again, they only stayed for about 30 minutes. Same scenario—with Mia distraught and the others just standing at the end of the bed talking. They left town after the second visit and never saw Ayden again. He lived for three and a half more days.
So I held Ayden’s hand, massaged his head, adjusted his pillow, and began to pray with him. We had (have?) matching prayer beads. I’ve only prayed with my beads a few times since Ayden’s overdose. My beads have become my outside beads for walks through the redwoods and to church, and Ayden’s beads have become my inside prayer beads. They will stay safe in my home. Our faith was something that bound us together.
I think about the day Ayden came to me and told me that he’d been “saved.” I was initially skeptical. After a thorough questioning to make sure his theology and understanding of the Triune God aligned with orthodoxy—and that he hadn’t bought into any cult Christianity—I embraced him as my Christian brother from that day forward. His faith was deep, and Jesus was a regular part of our conversations, mostly brought up by him. He had a real desire to talk about God. I loved that in him. He was a seeker and too often mused that he looked forward to the afterlife more than he enjoyed this life.
I knew in those moments what he really meant, and all I could do was tell him I loved him and remind him that so many people loved him and would be devastated by his death. I hoped my words reached him. He’d been through so much, and through it all, his faith only grew.
When he was a child, I would sing him to sleep nearly every night, and his favorite songs were always As the Deer, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, Amazing Grace, and Blackbird. When he was less than two years old, he would grab my face and yell, “Deer song!” He would get all comfortable, rest his head back into my arm, and enjoy his dad’s voice—filled with love, hopes, and dreams for such a beautiful creature.
Ayden accomplished more in 25 years than most people do in a lifetime, and that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
We held hands and prayed. Slowly, by the end of the day, the pain on his face began to fade, and I began to sense his body was feeling more comfortable. The seizures were completely gone, and nothing besides his lungs moved, in and out to the rhythm of the ventilator.
Monday passed into Monday night, and the exhaustion grew. The night nurse, Sara, helped me get comfortable in the reclining chair. She had tricks to keep it from sitting up unexpectedly. I settled in beside Ayden, with his hand in mine, for whatever sleep the night offered. I’m sure I got a few hours of sleep because I woke up a few times in a panic that I had let go of his hand, only to find that it was still clasped in mine.
Reassured, I’d lay my head back down…
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