On June 17th, 2012, we as a family (James, Camille, Adam, Ellinor, Leigh-Ann, Denny, Kelsey, Ethan, David, Jan, Lauren (and Evan) and myself chose to dine out for lunch as we sometimes do and always end up at China Capital. Anybody in the know is aware in the North Mississippi area there are only two choices for "Chinese" food; one of which is Sun Kai and the other is China Capital.
So anyways, we ate, we talked, we laughed and then when came time for the fortune cookies we cried. Cry? At a Chinese restaurant? Trust me the food was not that transcendental. We were given one extra fortune at the table (which meant it was for Evan). The first fortune read "a four-wheeled adventure will soon bring you happiness." The second one read "when one door closes, another will open." The last and final fortune read "Remember three months from this date. Good things are in store for you." Reading the last fortune immediately threw me into a tailspin because exactly three months from that day was Evan's original due date. What did this mean? Was there still hope? Was there a miracle to be performed? How often have you had a fortune cookie that was that was that accurate? Exactly three months from that day our child was to be born. The other two still had significance as we knew that something was still in the works. God's plan was not to let our son's death be in vain. A four-wheeled adventure could mean anything. I find myself in a car almost everyday. EVERY DAY. No journey would quite change my life as much as the one on August 26th, 2012 did. This is that story.
I awoke to the soft murmurs of my wife's voice at 3:40am. "Chris", she said. "Chris." She never raised her voice, she never panicked and then said in a calm, joyful and proud declaration "I think my water just broke." The way she said it was "I think my water just broke." What I heard was "OH MY GOD! MY MOTHER @#$%ING WATER BROKE! HOLY CRAP! HOLY CRAP! HOLY CRAP!"I don't even think my feet touched the floor as I left the bed. I was literally running through the house grabbing things I knew we needed for the trip. My actions were reminiscent of a contestant on the television show
Supermarket Sweep. I USED TO LOVE THAT SHOW. If it was still on today I could no doubt dominate the competition. Luckily she had prompted to me begin putting things together in order days before even though we weren't due to be induced until the 30th. Once everything was in the car Lauren prompted me for one final baby bump photo in front of our doughnut painting in our kitchen. One last photo of the way things
were.
We got into the car, took a deep breath and left the driveway. That was the last time Lauren and Evan would be
together in her car. The car we bought for
them. The roads were dark and vacant. In all my years of travel never have I seen the roads as quiet as they were that morning. On a 29.7 mile journey that would normally take 35 minutes we made in 20. On a journey where we would typically see hundreds of cars, maybe even a thousand we only saw 10 cars. TEN CARS.
Lauren and I arrived at the hospital around 4:20am. We were moved to the Observation area where they asked Lauren a few questions and validated her water breaking, checked her blood pressure and other vitals as well as Evan's heart rate. I was a complete and total wreck. I was in fact so nervous I went to the bathroom 3 times in a 25 minute time frame. My stomach felt like a child's spinning top.
Once the nurses had verified everything we were moved from Observation to L&D room 102. It was a nice room and the attending nurses were even nicer. So much emotion in that hour! Today was the day I would meet my son and meet the mother of my child. Little did I know I would also meet somebody else that day. I called my mother to inform her of the situation and let her prepare for her trip. She had a five and a half hour trip to prepare for. A long drive for somebody preparing to meet their first grandchild and possibly say goodbye. Camille was the first to arrive that day, followed by Jan and the other members of the family flooded in through the day.
The terror and anxiety I felt during that day was indescribable. The anxiousness of the desire to meet my son but the worry and fear that I could lose my wife. Terrible and joyous emotions. A heart divided and a soul in disarray. Listening to somebody's life being amplified through a heart monitor is a terrifying thing. With every rising and falling beep you either gain hope or lose it. It was like watching a sporting event. I was rooting for
my home team. I
wanted them to win. They
had to win. That heart rate monitor was my best friend and worst enemy all day long. I watched it fervently. There were actually two monitors; one that monitored Lauren's contractions and one that was tracking Lauren's vitals as well as Evan's. My eyes were constantly moving in a triangular pattern. I looked to Lauren first, then the contraction monitor and then the vital monitor. They were my trinity in room 102.
During this time more people had arrived including my mother. I was glad to see her as it had been quite a while since we had last seen her. Time was moving so fast through the day. At this point Lauren had been laboring for
seventeen hours. SEVENTEEN! Earlier in the day Lauren and I coined a go-code for a c-section. That word was
banana. Why she chose banana I still don't know. Her doctor advised me that continuing labor was useless. CODE BANANA WAS GO. This was it. THIS WAS IT.
Lauren and I talked for a few minutes to go over everything and just be Lauren and Chris for a few minutes as the people we were, were about to die. Nobody knew it that day, but we would be saying goodbye to three people soon.
I went to the lobby to let everybody know about the situation and prepare myself for the next few minutes. I had no strength at all. God was carrying me through those hallways and across that cold floor. He had lifted me up on wings like eagle's... Camille, Leigh-Ann and Jan were the only people that got to see Lauren right before surgery due to time constraints.
NOTE: Certain details have to be omitted from this point forward due to legal constraints.
I went back to scrub in and prepare for this moment along with some
other members that would be in the operating room. We were all terrified. I have never been so conflicted with emotion in all my life. Nothing can prepare you for that. Nothing. The staff began moving Lauren from our room (102) to the OR at 10:38pm. She was being wheeled down the hall on that bed and God was guiding me behind her like I was on a moving walkway in an airport. I felt like I was floating, because I was. I being carried by his spirit. 17 hours of this kind of emotion will wreak havoc on your body and soul. They took her into the OR first and I (
and a friend) was asked to remain outside in the hall for a few minutes. Watching her being wheeled into that room was indescribable. Watching those doors open and swallow my wife and her ushers reminded me of
Jonah and the Whale.
If you remember earlier the second fortune was "When one door closes another one opens." The door on our old life was closing and I was walking into the room where next door would open to our next. That room was filled with the brightest white light I have ever seen. It was the most surreal event of my entire life.
The staff had placed a stool to the left of Lauren's side where I would sit. There was so much chatter going on but all I could hear was Lauren's voice. I held her hand and kissed her on her forehead. I couldn't see what was going on during the surgery as there was a drape dividing my Lauren and I from where the c-section was taking place. Lauren and I just looked at each other with what they call
the 1000 yard stare. Urban dictionary defines this as such:
| 1000 yard stare
|
|
|
A battlefield syndrome in which a soldier may
become lost in thought due to stress from the fight. The 1000 Yard Stare
is named such because the soldier may seem to be focusing on an object
very far away, and may even become unresponsive to external stimuli. The
phrase was coined during the Vietnam war.
|
That pretty much summed it up. Exhausted from the stress of a fight and focusing on an object far away. And then it all changed... Lauren's doctor proclaimed "He's out!" Evan entered our world at 10:50pm on August 26th, 2012. Then Evan cried. This was something that doesn't happen very often with children like Evan. God was speaking through my son and we all heard his call in that room. That was when we met Evan and I saw truly saw God for the first time. They then rested Evan on Lauren's bare chest and I marveled at them both. They were only two feet from my stool but I felt miles away from them and then that abruptly changed.
Lauren began shaking and the doctor's asked how she felt. She didn't want to speak as she was fearful she might bite into her tongue. They then asked "Dad, do you want to hold him?" I had never felt so sure of anything in my life. I had been waiting for this moment for nearly nine months. When I felt his body in my arms I never wanted to let him go. I resisted the thought of even giving him back to Lauren. I didn't want him to go anywhere. He was our child and he was my son.
My son. I knew as soon as Evan was brought into that room his life was on a timer, like somebody had upturned an hourglass. With every breath and heartbeat of his another grain of sand fell into the chamber of death below.
While I was emotionally overrun with love, anger was tearing at me simultaneously. I didn't want to lose my child. I didn't want to say
goodbye. Unless you have been in this situation before it is almost impossible to conceive. Knowing you will have to say
goodbye to your greatest work soon is something no parent should ever have to do. Especially when it is
perfect. Evan was perfect for God's kingdom, but not created for this Earth. God gave him Lauren's hair, nose and chin; and postured him with my hands, feet, arms and legs. God gave him blue eyes to witness our love and our devotion to his creation.
I didn't know what to say to him because I didn't want the disrupt the harmony of the moment but everybody kept urging me to talk to him. "It's nice to meet you!" "I'm so glad you're here!" "Hey little buddy!" "I'm going to miss you." "Hey! Hey.
Hey. I love you." He spoke back to me with simple coo's. I don't know what it was that he was saying to me but he understood my voice.
During the course of the pregnancy I read two books to Evan, one of which was A.A. Milne's
Winnie the Pooh. It was hard to see him through my glasses as they were fogging up because of the surgical mask but his image was ever present. I mentioned to a friend in the hallway outside the OR, my only regret was not purchasing the anti-fog coating on my lenses because of the cost.
Shortly after we were moved from the OR into the recovery area. It was vacant and sterile. Haunting almost. When we were moved into that room our family was ushered in. We were proud to introduce the newest member of our family to them. All the while the nurses constantly checked Evan's heartbeat to monitor his life because those grains of sand were still falling. At one point Evan's heart rate had slowed to 60 beats per minute and Lauren wanted me to take him into my arms for what we thought might be his narrowing journey. Immediately after I took him his heart rate soared to 140 beats per minute. My embrace gave him a little more strength and inspiration to remain with us for a little longer, he was slowing the fall of those grains. The Lord was giving us more time.
One of the nurses had let us know that we had a visitor. When I asked who it was they said "It's your pastor, Will Rambo." Will Rambo is one of the only men I will ever proclaim to love. He has been my spiritual tour guide for the past year. He has pointed me to scriptures, directed me to the Lord's love and forgiveness and he showed me the way to understanding. He shared with me the most important piece of literature I've ever read. Will and I had talked about potentially baptizing Evan at this intersection before and he had told me that it wasn't necessary but it was something we could do if we chose to do so. Lauren declared her want for our child to be anointed with the Lord's blessing. The nurses brought us a basin for the waters that Lauren's father held. We all gathered around Evan while I cradled him and presented his right hand for Will. I'll never forget the water moving across his hand in that pattern as Will said "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit." It looked just like this "*". It was like magic. My son had been marked with a sacred symbol. My son had been marked with the sign of the trinity. I was jealous. My son had been healed with the sacred waters before I had. The Holy Spirit was moving through that room that night.
Evan's celebration of life moved like a parade from the recovery area to L&D 115. We all surrounded him with our love and began to mourn him. 115 slowly became a room of sorrow as those grains continued to fall. Our nurse continued to monitor Evan's heartbeat and looked at us with a look of concern that mirrored
that look. The look you see in movies and TV shows, it's real. It looks just like that. That look of desperation and sadness. Nobody wants to give you that look.
Nobody. Evan's respirations had ceased and his heart rate had decreased to 20 beats per minute shortly after 3:00 am. A few minutes later the nurse checked him and said "I'm sorry." That was
the look. The last grain of sand had fallen. The chamber was empty. My son had left his mother's arms and was taken away by the embrace of our Lord. Our son died at 3:20am on August 27th, 2012. Lauren and I died at 3:20am along with him and we were reborn at 3:21am. Reborn and brokenhearted. Empty. "
In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning." I remembered but this was not the last I would think of this.
We had Evan's body for five hours after his passing in L&D 115 where James, Camille and our nurse
took prints of his little hands and feet and made keepsakes for us. The anger and sorrow I felt during those minutes still haunts me till this day. The way his little body was being contorted to make these images just destroyed me. Holding your deceased child is something that fills you with raw emotion. Anger, distrust, helplessness, hopelessness and emptiness. But mostly anger. I was so mad at these people because I just wanted to hold my son in solitude. I wanted more time with him. I needed more time with him. I just wanted him back. I wanted to talk to him more. I didn't say enough. I needed to hear his voice again.
So after we finished the keepsake box, James, Camille and our nurse departed the room. Lauren and I were left with Evan's body. I gave Evan's body to Lauren and I read over him the final chapter of
Winnie the Pooh; "Christopher Robin Says Goodbye to Winnie the Pooh." I purposefully saved this final chapter for this moment because I knew of it's purpose. We were saying goodbye. An excerpt from the chapter:
“Pooh, promise you won’t forget me, ever. Not even when I am 100.” Pooh thought for a little, “How old shall I be then?” “Ninety-nine.” Pooh nodded. “I promise,” he said.
Shortly after I walked to the nurses' desk to tell them I needed assistance in giving him his bath and dressing him for his departure. She arrived about 20 minutes later. We placed Evan on his towel and she began to clean him removing the vernix from his skin. She took the most care in washing him. I have no doubts that the Lord was guiding her hands as no person could do this on her own. We finished bathing him and we took some locks of his hair. We took his outfit out and prepared to adorn him in his new clothes. His
first outfit. His
last outfit. Putting his little booties on was saddening. His little feet were so cold and soft. Every time I put my socks on now I think of that moment. The last thing we did was put his hat on. I hadn't
really looked at the hat until now. I laughed. It looked like a chef's hat. A little blue chef's hat. He was ready to go.
The pediatric nurse came to our room and weighed and measured him. Four pounds and ten ounces. Eighteen inches long. This was Evan Parker Cornett. I swaddled my son and gave his body away. That was the last time I would see his body but his image visits me daily.
Evan Parker Cornett, let your death not be in vain. May your life be a reminder of what we should be doing and who we should be praising. I long to hold you again.
