“We’re shifting into a different kind of care now,” she said quietly.
“What if we don’t agree? What if we want another opinion?”
“Finn has been assessed by several doctors. But if you’d like to have a meeting with the hospital ethics committee, it can be scheduled.”
I sank back down in the chair. “Who are you again?”
“I’m Alice, the social worker.”
“So you see this sort of thing all the time?”
“This is part of my job, yes.”
“If Finn was your baby, would you do this?”
She sat in the chair next to me. “It’s hard to let go. Only you as Finn’s family can decide when you’re ready, when you feel you’ve exhausted all your options.”
“But they won’t do the surgery.”
She set down the pen. “They don’t feel it would be successful, and it is a difficult, painful, long surgery.”
I held my head in my hands, staring at the sheets of paper. Finn would be cut open, his heart sliced up, and all for nothing. That’s what they were saying.
I snatched up the pen, scrawling my name everywhere there was a flag. They’d already prepared all of this before the meeting, so anything we said wouldn’t have changed what happened. Even so, her words nagged at me. Only you as Finn’s family can decide.
When the woman finally picked up the papers, I hurried after Corabelle. She was in the NICU, leaning over Finn’s bed, stroking his head. “We didn’t get much parenting in, did we?”
I came up behind her and put my arms around her waist. “We crammed in all we could.”
Finn’s chest rose and fell with the ventilator. I’d never gotten used to the sound, a choppy mechanical wheeze. A nurse arrived and shot something into his IV. “We’re giving him a stronger medication. He’ll rest very peacefully now.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but not long after that, I could see he had changed, his arms flatter against the bed, his legs very still. He was more than asleep now. He was out.
“What did they do to him?” Corabelle asked. She picked up his limp hand.
I knew they had sedated him, and that this was the beginning. “You should call your parents now,” I said. “They should be here.”
Corabelle fumbled with her phone. I knew I should probably call my mother, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She might bring my father, and I didn’t want him there.
The staff didn’t allow calls in the NICU, other than in emergencies, so Corabelle left the ward. I was alone with Finn, seeing the same things Corabelle had seen. He already seemed gone. The machine continued its helicopter sound. I tried to picture him somewhere else, asleep in the crib at home, the butterfly mobile fluttering above his head. He was healthy and fine, and if I wanted to, I could pick him up, stick him on my shoulder, and carry him around with me, warm and breathing and curled into my neck. I’d never held him. No one had. I wasn’t sure any of us would.
A nurse walked by, and I reached out to stop her. “So what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
I could see she didn’t know what had been decided earlier that day. “When they turn all of this off.” I gestured vaguely at all the machinery.
Her eyes grew wide. “Let me get someone who is updated on Finn.” She stroke briskly away.
The nurse Angilee popped around the corner. “I’m so sorry, Gavin. Finn is such a beautiful little boy. You two can decide what time we remove the ventilator. We usually do it around eight in the evening, as that is a quiet time here. Does that give your family time to be here? Or do you want another time?”
I tried to answer her, but my mouth had gone completely dry. “I will ask Corabelle if eight works.”
She took my hand, her dark fingers surrounding mine. Her braids were tied together in an intricate weave, like a halo on her head. “Do you want to have Finn baptized?”
“I don’t know,” I croaked out. “I need to ask Corabelle. Our families aren’t very religious.”
She squeezed my hand. “Let me know. We have a chaplain here. I’ll just need some notice to make sure he can fit it in sometime today.”
“So what happens?”
“Well, first we’ll seat Corabelle in a chair, and then we’ll take off the monitor wires so we can move Finn out of the bed.” She pointed to the disks on his chest. “He’ll still be on the ventilator.” She let go of me and moved around the machines to point out the thick air tubes that led to his mouth.
“This we can move with him, and we’ll untape it. When you both are ready, we’ll take it out.”
I gripped the edge of the bed. “Will he die right away?”
“Not usually. He’ll breathe a little on his own for a little while. But he won’t be pumping enough oxygen.”
“He’s going to suffocate?”
Angilee came back around and rubbed my back. “We will not let Finn be in any pain whatsoever.”
“He’s sedated, isn’t he?”
“He has been since he was given the ventilator, for his safety.”
“But it’s more now.”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“He doesn’t feel anything?”
“Nothing at all.”
So he really was already gone. Anything we said to him, any touch we did. I had made that choice. I had signed the paper and now it was too late to even say good-bye.