But it's April. And it's 6 days away from the 29th. And if I even see that man that pronounced Isaiah dead, I might need to be the one hospitalized. I grew to hate that man. The one that took any ounce of hope I had, and crushed it. He didn't even try. No procedure, no further attempt at keeping him here. Just waltzing in the room to look at him and pronounce him dead. How can someone I would give my own life for be just another number to someone else? I went into that hospital 3 times since. He didn't even recognize me. Not my face, not my name. I've thought about his face a thousand times over. Thinking of his name makes me nauseous, remembering the hospital bills we got in the mail with his name stamped on it, like I owed him anything, let alone thousands of dollars, all for him to tell us what everyone already knew. And the way he said it to the nurses. "Yep, he's dead." The sound of his voice has played back in my mind, everytime it wanders to those awful hours of my life, and I wish that the shock would have left my body long enough for me to scream horrible things at him. Maybe then he wouldn't have forgotten my face.
Two years of holding someone personally accountable for Isaiah's death. Two years of wondering what more they could have done. Two years of wishing I could tell him how much he's hurt my family. Visions of myself storming in there with pictures of three siblings, and the drawings that their hearts have etched on paper, yearning for four. "You didn't just let one life end, a part of all of us died that day!" He didn't get it because he didn't see it that early morning. Innocent children were still tucked in bed, unaware that they would wake up to friends of family and police officers quietly shuffling around in their home.
The hospital was unusually packed for a Wednesday night. And for some reason, it seemed Elijah had been bumped up on the list, for what was actually something quite minor. We didn't get done with registration before the triage nurse came and got us, all while a packed waiting room glared our way, because I'm sure some of them had been sitting there for hours. A couple of questions later, I look up to see him. "It's your lucky day! I'm gonna expedite this process and save you a few hours." Why was a doctor coming in the triage room? Why was he helping us? He knelt down next to Elijah and joked with him about broken noses, talked basketball, and made an attempt to make him smile.
Don't you talk to him. Get away from my child. You are the reason he doesn't have a brother. This time I would make sure he knew it, too. If he couldn't remember my face, he was going to remember the face of a 7 year old boy who waited 9 long months to play with a brother, only for him to have 25 days of playtime before it was ripped away by his hands.
I directed my sentence to Elijah, all the while, making sure he got the message. "Buddy, this is the doctor that saw Isaiah go to Heaven. He was the one that gave him a check up when the ambulance brought him here."
All eyes turned to me. And I planned on feeling justice. Finally, I got to make him look into the blue eyes of one of my children, and see the hurt. But instead, his head dropped into his hands and he looked up, dropped back down, and looked up again. He saw the tears that started to escape Elijah's eyes, and he said "I'm sorry. I remember. That was a really hard night for me too."
He remembers? It was hard for him? The vindication that I wanted to feel, that I deserved to feel, it didn't come. I looked around and tears were streaming down the cheeks of all four people in that room. And all of the time I had spent playing judge and jury came down to this one moment. I spent so much time holding that noose of unforgiveness, waiting to kick his feet out from under him, yet instead, I was the one being choked out and left speechless. He hugged Elijah, telling him that it was ok to cry, and looked at me with sincerity, and said "I wish I could have done more. You have a great kid, and I'm sure Isaiah would have been no different." And there I was, hanging in my own guilt and
shame, hoping that my half smile would mask the disappointment I felt. The disappointment in myself.
And so I'm reminded once again of the journey Isaiah's life has taken me on, and how God has used him to continuously humble his Mama. I'm happy a broken nose wasn't all that was fixed, because an unforgiving heart was causing much more pain. And maybe, hopefully, next time I won't wait two years.
The hospital was unusually packed for a Wednesday night. And for some reason, it seemed Elijah had been bumped up on the list, for what was actually something quite minor. We didn't get done with registration before the triage nurse came and got us, all while a packed waiting room glared our way, because I'm sure some of them had been sitting there for hours. A couple of questions later, I look up to see him. "It's your lucky day! I'm gonna expedite this process and save you a few hours." Why was a doctor coming in the triage room? Why was he helping us? He knelt down next to Elijah and joked with him about broken noses, talked basketball, and made an attempt to make him smile.
Don't you talk to him. Get away from my child. You are the reason he doesn't have a brother. This time I would make sure he knew it, too. If he couldn't remember my face, he was going to remember the face of a 7 year old boy who waited 9 long months to play with a brother, only for him to have 25 days of playtime before it was ripped away by his hands.
I directed my sentence to Elijah, all the while, making sure he got the message. "Buddy, this is the doctor that saw Isaiah go to Heaven. He was the one that gave him a check up when the ambulance brought him here."
All eyes turned to me. And I planned on feeling justice. Finally, I got to make him look into the blue eyes of one of my children, and see the hurt. But instead, his head dropped into his hands and he looked up, dropped back down, and looked up again. He saw the tears that started to escape Elijah's eyes, and he said "I'm sorry. I remember. That was a really hard night for me too."
He remembers? It was hard for him? The vindication that I wanted to feel, that I deserved to feel, it didn't come. I looked around and tears were streaming down the cheeks of all four people in that room. And all of the time I had spent playing judge and jury came down to this one moment. I spent so much time holding that noose of unforgiveness, waiting to kick his feet out from under him, yet instead, I was the one being choked out and left speechless. He hugged Elijah, telling him that it was ok to cry, and looked at me with sincerity, and said "I wish I could have done more. You have a great kid, and I'm sure Isaiah would have been no different." And there I was, hanging in my own guilt and
shame, hoping that my half smile would mask the disappointment I felt. The disappointment in myself.
And so I'm reminded once again of the journey Isaiah's life has taken me on, and how God has used him to continuously humble his Mama. I'm happy a broken nose wasn't all that was fixed, because an unforgiving heart was causing much more pain. And maybe, hopefully, next time I won't wait two years.
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