An Untitled Story: Chapter 4

James was sleeping in the chair next to Ian's bed, his head resting near his son's. Annie stroked his hair the best she could, maneuvering past the straps around his head holding his tube in place. She sang softly to him, whispered stories and words of encouragement into his ear. Dr. Bullick knocked on the glass entrance and, this time, stayed standing. "Have you made a decision?"
Annie shook James harshly. He startled awake. "Dr. Bullick wants to know if we've decided on a code status yet." Still looking sleepy, James sat more upright in his chair.
"Sorry, Doc," he said, looking embarassed. "Uh, yeah, we have." His collected his thoughts, which became evident in his pained face. A lingering look at his son ended with, "We want what's best for Ian, or Tyler, even if we have to let him go."
Dr. Bullick could see the family was trying to be very brave. He respected them for making such a selfless decision. "Alright, I'll bring some paperwork in and we will stop life support immediately. We will keep him very comfortable, I assure you." He left the room. Annie looked at James, holding her breath, for fear of letting any pain out. The doctor returned very quickly with a pen and several papers. The beginning of the end would start with a single signature.

"You call back to that hospital right now!" an irrate Commissioner bellowed. "Do me a favor and notify our officers, then fire yourself!" he huffed. "I'm responsible for this division. My head is on the chopping block! Do you have no respect for me? To make a mistake like this is not only inexcusable, its downright moronic!" Steam could almost be seen coming from underneath his burly gray mustache. His pot-belly jiggled with each roar. Anger was something that had always come easy to him, but incompetency set it off faster than any trigger that his staff knew. This matter was going to be fixed immediately, even if he had to do it himself.
A phone call was made in urgency to St. Gregory's hospital.

Dr. Bullick instructed the nurses to extubate Ian and set up a morphine pain pump to deliver a continuous rate. Judy Miller was requested to assist with the procedure. Three nurses, including Judy, worked quietly and diligently to care for this boy. They did not want to be in the room any longer than they had to be so the family could have some privacy. After each task was completed, Judy placed oxygen via nasal cannula under Ian's nose. They all stepped back, allowing silent tears to fall on their own faces.
  Annie held Ian's hand in a tight grip, willing him to open his eyes. She needed a miracle--one more chance to be his mother, one more chance to hold her son. James stepped out of the room, unable to watch his helpless son slip away. Ian stayed still, he looked ragged, but calm. The family watched his chest rise and fall inconsistently. He twitched every now and then, but mostly remained still.
  For an hour, the family sat by his bedside. James paced the floor of the ICU, but returned frequently to check on Ian. Susan was motionless, staring at her brother, but seeing past him into her own thoughts. She wanted to cry, to shake him alive, but something held her back. She felt nothing for him. She knew she must be a terribly wicked person to feel so cold towards her brother.
  Ian's breathing began to slow. Annie noticed he took a breath every fifteen seconds now. She thought watching him fade out of her life so peacefully would be easier than this. Her own breath began to speed, her heart followed. James noticed her distress, grabbing her from her chair in time to catch her first tear drop into his shirt. They cried together. What little life Ian Thomas had was now gone.
  Judy heard the crying at the nurses station. She entered the room and checked his pulse. Her head hung sadly. At least he died with all who loved him, she thought. She knew Corey was sleeping in the next room, but she felt compelled to rouse him for a final farewell.
 "Wait," Judy said aloud. "Corey needs to say good-bye." She slipped out of the room past the gaurd next door and shook him slightly. A sleepy young man awakened and knew instantly the truth. His own tears forced their way from his tired eyes, and he reached for Judy as a child would for their mother. She held him in her arms, returning the sentiment as a mother would. She held him for many minutes, until he pulled away from her. She steadied him out of bed and walked him timidly around the corner.
  The Thomas's moved in close to their son. Annie held his hand for the last time and began singing,
"Hush-a bye, don't you cry. Go to sleepy little baby. Wen you wake--" but she couldnt finish her song.
  Corey's heart began to race at the familiar sound.
  "Mom," Susan said, tapping her mother's shoulder. The crying continued and Susan went unnoticed. "Mom," Susan said, a little more loudly. She was more forceful this time, catching her mother's attention
  Annie looked at her daughter, who was looking towards the curtain.
"This isn't Ian." She looked back to her mother's eyes. "That's Ian." Susan could sense immediately the bond that they shared many years ago. No one would be able to convince her otherwise. Annie and James looked past their daughter into the face of a young man, standing quietly next to Judy with his arm in a sling. Tears streamed down his face, a mirror image of the family molded into one person.
"Ian!" Annie whispered.

What's Left Behind

  I had my children at my husband's lot today, running around in the warm WINTER sun. It was comforting to watch my kids interacting with my husband and to see how they truly love him so much. He's their dad, and they feel just like I do about mine. I wondered what they would remember years from now when they looked back on their childhood. Would they remember this run-down lot that my husband is working so hard to fix up and provide a living for his family? Will they remember the back room of the office trailor that he set up as a playroom for the kids? Will they remember the pot-holes and the giant pile of sand a dumtruck unloaded there when he broke down? These may seem like insignificant hoosier memories to some, but I remember my parents going through the same thing. They were just trying to make ends meet and do what they could to give us the best possible life.
  I remember my own father wearing his cut-off jeans and his shaggy-red hair. Some of my best times were him teaching us how to ride our bikes on the dead-end road, or roasting marshmellows down by the creek bed. I remember spending lots of time in the woods with my father, in the shop with my father, running errands with my father, him teaching me constantly. I thought the world of him and still do. All the things that seemed like everyday life to me, I have come to learn were truly special. Not everyone had a father that played with them for hours in the snow, or built them a swingset, or taught them how to shoot soda cans off a saw-horse, but mine did. There are more memories than my fingers could ever write, and I know that we didnt have much but it always seemed like we were rich to me.
  And now I watch my own kids and wonder if they'll remember how poor we are, or will they remember how much fun they had instead. My father works hard to make a comfortable life that we all enjoy and my husband does the same. I am so sure that Albert (husband) will be a great success and so my children might not remember this time. If they do, I hope they have the understanding that I do. Those memories of our early years are perhaps the most influential memories we have. They wont remember a run-down lot, but they will remember their dad running his son on his shoulders through the parking lot, and watching the train go by across the highway (afterall, we live on the Island of Sodor, as their dad likes to tell them). They'll remember their dad putting them on top of cars and racing them along the fence line.
  I was lucky to have my father and now I am lucky to have married a man that invests in his children like mine did with me.
  Thank you, Dad, for all you are to your children, and thank you, Albert, for all that you will be to yours.