The baby is so small, about the size of my hand, if that. A baby shouldn’t be this small.
That’s the problem.
They say he doesn’t have long, that they don’t think it’s likely that he’ll survive the night, with or without the machine pumping his blood and breathing for him.
They are giving me a choice.
I know he’ll make it. I know how strong he is. How much he’s been fighting and kicking. Full of life from day one. He’s stronger than all of them know. They don’t know him like I do. He doesn’t need all of these wires, the white tape that keeps it all together around his oh so tiny face and chest. There’s barely any baby in the incubator, swamped by the machinery.
He can stay like that. Given round the clock care. and if, like the doctors think, he doesn’t make it, then I get a cold body where my child should be.
Or I can hold him, instead of looking through a box at him. Sit in a chair, cradling my son. No wire. No life support. And watch,
as he slowly falls asleep,
and passes away.
But I know he’s going to make it. I know he will. He’s going to pass high school with flying colours, get a degree, become an astronaut, scientist, cure cancer, have a beautiful family with beautiful children. Whatever he does I’ll be proud of him. Because he is going to do and achieve so much.
Because he is going to make it.