When the Dancing Queen was in the hospital during her first (or perhaps it was the second) round of her boxing match with pulmonary hypertension, she developed pneumonia following a cath. She was in the hospital for at least ten days.
One evening, one of my parents came to sit with DQ as she watched "Cars" for the billionth time (or was it "Signing Time"?) so I could grab some food and pee (DQ would not let me leave her eyesight). That night, I decided to grab some dinner and went to the waiting area to be out of the room that had been my prison for quite some time (admittedly, DQ was more of a prisoner than myself). While I was there, I engaged in a wonderful, if not sad, conversation with two other heart moms.
The conversation was wonderful because these moms understood me in a way that most other people can never relate and will never relate. The conversation was sad because it is always sad to be discussing the horrors of children fighting battles against defective hearts and lungs.
Today, I don't remember specifics about what we discussed, but I do know that we each recounted our girls' stories (all of the moms' CHDers were girls). I clearly remember talking about our girls. It was clear how much we needed our girls and how much we loved them and would do for them. After an hour, I had to return to DQ so my mom or dad (whomever was there) could head home for the night.
I sat in DQ's hospital room that night thinking about the other moms and the relationships I had with them and all other heart moms. It is a special relationship, something that cannot really be understood until you are in our shoes (shoes none of us would ever want any of you to walk in). And I was so happy to be able to sit down with other people in a room and not have to explain the basics of being a heart mom. They just knew. I reveled in how nice it was to have this instant camaraderie and connection. I looked forward to other "dinners" in the waiting room.
Suddenly, my reflective moment was shattered by the most heart-wrenching scream I have ever heard. My body tingled just now as I recalled the moment--it was that intense. I knew in an instant what the noise meant: one of the moms I had just talked to, one of the moms who had told me of how hard she and her daughter had fought to be here, had lost her daughter. The little girl had died.
I wanted to run to my fellow heart mom, to hold her, to absorb some of the pain that enveloped the entire cardiac care unit. But I couldn't leave DQ. She was sleeping at that moment, but had been waking frequently and could not handle being in the hospital room without me or someone else she loved in eyesight. So, instead, I sat in my prison cell, and cried for my new friend's loss.
The next day, when MS came to switch places with me, I tried to find the mom, but she was gone.
To this day, I've not seen the mom again, but I do think of her often. I think of her daughter.
And as DQ continues her slow decline toward that same fate, I think of them both more. And that scream, . . .
. . . it haunts me.