Status: 2
The Critical Sacrifice
Daddy...
Day nineteen. September 10th, 2003.
I sit beside the incubator, watching the tiny chest move slowly; up, and down, then back up. It’s so painful to watch. My eyes well up and I look away, my thumb still stroking my little babies tiny hand. I don’t know if she’ll survive at all. She was only six months. She’s been in that incubator for over three weeks now, and I’m still not allowed home.
My name is Laurie Michelle McCoy and I’m twenty-two years old. My husband is James Allan McCoy. He’s twenty-four. We were both born, raised and now reside in Glasgow, Scotland. Our little baby girl is the only good thing in our lives right now, and she might not survive.
We decide on a name. I let James pick her first name; he names her after his younger sister, who died in a motorcycle accident three years ago. Her name was Lesley. So I use my cousins name for Lesley’s middle name. She was called Marie. Our little girl is Lesley Marie McCoy. It hurts to know that now we’ve named her, it’s going to be - if possible - harder to take if she doesn’t survive.
Lesley’s lungs are underdeveloped. As are her liver and her kidneys. The doctors pump drugs into her through a tube in her wrist, whilst they pump food and other nutrition through a tube leading into her stomach. A nurse comes in every half an hour to check that her vitals are still as good as to be expected. They claim she’s getting stronger every day. But we just can’t see it.
*
Day twenty-four. September 15th, 2003.
They let me go home a few days ago. But all I do is sit up in bed, staring out of the window blankly and occasionally crying. I know it’s not going to make things any better, but I can’t help it. She’s my little girl, my only child, and she might not make it.
It’s my twenty-third birthday today. I’m showered with presents and cards, but all their smiles are fake. I know. Nothing, not even the fact that my ninety-one year old great-grandmother is here to support me, can fill the gaping hole that’s caused by the fact my four week old daughter is sick in hospital.
I find myself talking to Grandma Lilly, and I can see the sadness in her ever ancient eyes. She listens to every word I say and I realize how much I love her. In the time I’m pouring my heart, soul and eyes out to her, I decide I want Lilly in Lesley’s name. Lesley Marie Lilly McCoy. It sounds so perfect to me that I can’t help but cry more.
James comes over and pulls me into his arms, holding back his own tears. I sob that I want Lilly in Lesley’s name and he nods, kissing the top of my head and stroking my face.
Having kids wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be happy, completing. It wasn’t supposed to leave you heartbroken and empty. You weren’t supposed to fear, every moment of every day, that your baby might die while you’re not there.
*
Day twenty-seven. September 18th, 2003.
James is sick now. He started to cough up blood the day after my birthday, and we rushed him to hospital. The doctors say he’s very sick, with some aggressive form of pneumonia. I visit him everyday, talking to his unconscious body in the hope that he’ll get better, or just open his eyes long enough for me to let him know that I love him.
Then I go and visit Lesley. She’s getting bigger, and the doctors say her liver and kidneys have developed, but that her lungs need a little more time. I suppose it’s good news, but I can’t help worrying.
My mother died when I was six, and my dad started getting drunk a lot and he used to hit me. That’s how I met James, really. Both his parents hit him when he was a kid. I met him in the school cafeteria when I was fourteen, not long after starting high-school. Some boys in his grade were picking on me and he told them to leave off. After that, we seemed to click.
I want to give Lesley the best life she can have. No matter how bad it started off.
The rest of my family are worried about me. They think I’m stressed. People keep coming round, offering help or someone to talk to, but I just tell them to go away and leave me alone, as polite as possible in this situation. They don’t understand.
*
Day thirty-three. September 24th, 2003.
Lesley’s getting better, but James is getting worse. He’s pale, withdrawn, even lost so much weight that I can hardly recognize him. I sit by his bedside every day, praying he’ll get better. I squeeze his hand, hoping he’ll squeeze back and let me know he’s okay. But I know he’s not. He’s contracted MRSA. Doctors are using experimental drugs on him, but they’re doing very little, and they’re worsening his pneumonia.
Lesley opened her eyes for the first time today. And she cried. And moved. It was the most beautiful sight and sound I’d ever experienced; I cried. When she was finished crying, after she’d been fed, she looked at me. I put my finger in her hand and she gripping it lightly. I smiled a watery smile.
Now I have two people to talk to. Lesley has this face that makes her look like she’s almost listening. She’s so smart, and I’m so incredibly proud. I tell her about her daddy, explaining how sick he is. I show her pictures of him, and she touches them with her tiny fingers, smiling a tiny, baby, toothless smile. I can’t get over the feeling of being a mother. She makes me so happy.
Then I think about James, and how Lesley might not have a father to grow up with. It hurts to think that the man I grew up with, lost my virginity to, had my first child with, might not live to see everything.
He won’t see Lesley say her first word, take her first step. He won’t see her sit up, won’t see her feed herself. He won’t see her first day of school, he won’t see her graduation…
My James might not get to be a dad.
*
Day thirty-nine. September 25th 2003.
I took Lesley home yesterday. She’s still a little underweight, but everything’s working as good as it should. She’s even smiled. When I got home, my whole family was there. They all cooed over her, saying she’s the most beautiful baby ever. And I have to agree. Me and James make a cute baby.
But… the doctors say James won’t make it. He’s an inch from death and when he flat-lines, I’ve told them not to resuscitate him. I couldn’t take having to watch them do that to him. And if he really is as ill as they say he is, it’s pointless.
I don’t want to have him die twice. I couldn’t take it.
And he doesn’t deserve more pain.
He’s a good man. James McCoy is, and always will be, the most respectable, most kind and considerate man I’ll ever meet. I love him so incredibly much, and having to count the days until he leaves my life is just… unbelievable. I never thought I’d have to do something this terrible.
I get home and I see his guitar in the corner. I pick it up and walk over to Lesley, who’s kicking around slightly in her cot, and strum a few chords.
All of a sudden, she’s still and silent, watching me intently in that way she does. Somehow, I feel like she knows. I feel like she knows her dad’s dieing. I feel like she knows what I’m going through. I feel like she even knows that I’m playing a tune on the guitar for her.
And I’m so proud of my bright little girl.
*
Day forty-four. September 30th, 2003.
I’m sat at James’s bedside, holding his hand and watching his face. I can’t cry. Somehow, I know he’d want me to be happy. He used to tell me everyday that if I was happy, he’d be happy. I know he’ll be looking down on me and Lesley, feeling proud and loving us.
The doctors say it won’t be long now.
So I sit and I wait. I don’t want the day, hour, minute or second to come when he walks out of my life. But I know it’s going to happen.
I’m not the only one there. His older brother sits next to me, an arm round my shoulders and his other hand on James’s with mine. I feel him shaking, and I know I am too. We going to lose him.
Suddenly, he squeezes my hand. I see a flicker of a smile across his face, and then his hand goes limp again.
The machine stops beeping.
He’s flat-lined. Lesley starts to cry at the noise and I shake her gently to hush her, but she won’t calm. So I keep shaking her, and she slowly stops crying. She knows what’s happened. I can tell.
My James is gone.
*
Two years later. September 30th, 2005.
I stand at the gravestone as the rain falls. Lesley stands next to me, her hand firmly in mine. She learned to walk when she was nine months, but she hasn’t even thought about starting to speak. She hardly even cries.
She waddles forward, bending down and placing one single pansy on the mossy heap at the foot of the headstone. I smile down at her, and place my pansy next to hers. I miss him so much, and I know that Lesley, in her own way, misses him too.
Sometimes, I feel like she knows who he was.
Other times, I wish she knew more.
Picking up Lesley and holding her close, I brush the wet hair out of her face. She smiles her gorgeous childish smile, and I get that overwhelming sensation of pride again. I love her so much.
“Daddy,” I say, pointing at his headstone.
She looks up at me, with that look she has. The one she’s had since she first opened her eyes. The one that makes her look like she’s listening. Only this time, it looks like there’s an ounce of misunderstanding, and quite possibly a hint of confusion I only see rarely in my little girls eyes.
“Daddy…” she says, pointing at the headstone also.
My eyes well up and I hug her close. Her arms wrap round me and she hugs me back. I kiss her and she kisses me like only a child can.
It’s almost as if she saved her first word for her daddy. She was right there, standing over his grave. It sends shivers up my spine and I realize the sense of irony. And I can’t even put across how proud it makes me that her first word would be that one.
If only he’d been here to see it.
I sit beside the incubator, watching the tiny chest move slowly; up, and down, then back up. It’s so painful to watch. My eyes well up and I look away, my thumb still stroking my little babies tiny hand. I don’t know if she’ll survive at all. She was only six months. She’s been in that incubator for over three weeks now, and I’m still not allowed home.
My name is Laurie Michelle McCoy and I’m twenty-two years old. My husband is James Allan McCoy. He’s twenty-four. We were both born, raised and now reside in Glasgow, Scotland. Our little baby girl is the only good thing in our lives right now, and she might not survive.
We decide on a name. I let James pick her first name; he names her after his younger sister, who died in a motorcycle accident three years ago. Her name was Lesley. So I use my cousins name for Lesley’s middle name. She was called Marie. Our little girl is Lesley Marie McCoy. It hurts to know that now we’ve named her, it’s going to be - if possible - harder to take if she doesn’t survive.
Lesley’s lungs are underdeveloped. As are her liver and her kidneys. The doctors pump drugs into her through a tube in her wrist, whilst they pump food and other nutrition through a tube leading into her stomach. A nurse comes in every half an hour to check that her vitals are still as good as to be expected. They claim she’s getting stronger every day. But we just can’t see it.
*
Day twenty-four. September 15th, 2003.
They let me go home a few days ago. But all I do is sit up in bed, staring out of the window blankly and occasionally crying. I know it’s not going to make things any better, but I can’t help it. She’s my little girl, my only child, and she might not make it.
It’s my twenty-third birthday today. I’m showered with presents and cards, but all their smiles are fake. I know. Nothing, not even the fact that my ninety-one year old great-grandmother is here to support me, can fill the gaping hole that’s caused by the fact my four week old daughter is sick in hospital.
I find myself talking to Grandma Lilly, and I can see the sadness in her ever ancient eyes. She listens to every word I say and I realize how much I love her. In the time I’m pouring my heart, soul and eyes out to her, I decide I want Lilly in Lesley’s name. Lesley Marie Lilly McCoy. It sounds so perfect to me that I can’t help but cry more.
James comes over and pulls me into his arms, holding back his own tears. I sob that I want Lilly in Lesley’s name and he nods, kissing the top of my head and stroking my face.
Having kids wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be happy, completing. It wasn’t supposed to leave you heartbroken and empty. You weren’t supposed to fear, every moment of every day, that your baby might die while you’re not there.
*
Day twenty-seven. September 18th, 2003.
James is sick now. He started to cough up blood the day after my birthday, and we rushed him to hospital. The doctors say he’s very sick, with some aggressive form of pneumonia. I visit him everyday, talking to his unconscious body in the hope that he’ll get better, or just open his eyes long enough for me to let him know that I love him.
Then I go and visit Lesley. She’s getting bigger, and the doctors say her liver and kidneys have developed, but that her lungs need a little more time. I suppose it’s good news, but I can’t help worrying.
My mother died when I was six, and my dad started getting drunk a lot and he used to hit me. That’s how I met James, really. Both his parents hit him when he was a kid. I met him in the school cafeteria when I was fourteen, not long after starting high-school. Some boys in his grade were picking on me and he told them to leave off. After that, we seemed to click.
I want to give Lesley the best life she can have. No matter how bad it started off.
The rest of my family are worried about me. They think I’m stressed. People keep coming round, offering help or someone to talk to, but I just tell them to go away and leave me alone, as polite as possible in this situation. They don’t understand.
*
Day thirty-three. September 24th, 2003.
Lesley’s getting better, but James is getting worse. He’s pale, withdrawn, even lost so much weight that I can hardly recognize him. I sit by his bedside every day, praying he’ll get better. I squeeze his hand, hoping he’ll squeeze back and let me know he’s okay. But I know he’s not. He’s contracted MRSA. Doctors are using experimental drugs on him, but they’re doing very little, and they’re worsening his pneumonia.
Lesley opened her eyes for the first time today. And she cried. And moved. It was the most beautiful sight and sound I’d ever experienced; I cried. When she was finished crying, after she’d been fed, she looked at me. I put my finger in her hand and she gripping it lightly. I smiled a watery smile.
Now I have two people to talk to. Lesley has this face that makes her look like she’s almost listening. She’s so smart, and I’m so incredibly proud. I tell her about her daddy, explaining how sick he is. I show her pictures of him, and she touches them with her tiny fingers, smiling a tiny, baby, toothless smile. I can’t get over the feeling of being a mother. She makes me so happy.
Then I think about James, and how Lesley might not have a father to grow up with. It hurts to think that the man I grew up with, lost my virginity to, had my first child with, might not live to see everything.
He won’t see Lesley say her first word, take her first step. He won’t see her sit up, won’t see her feed herself. He won’t see her first day of school, he won’t see her graduation…
My James might not get to be a dad.
*
Day thirty-nine. September 25th 2003.
I took Lesley home yesterday. She’s still a little underweight, but everything’s working as good as it should. She’s even smiled. When I got home, my whole family was there. They all cooed over her, saying she’s the most beautiful baby ever. And I have to agree. Me and James make a cute baby.
But… the doctors say James won’t make it. He’s an inch from death and when he flat-lines, I’ve told them not to resuscitate him. I couldn’t take having to watch them do that to him. And if he really is as ill as they say he is, it’s pointless.
I don’t want to have him die twice. I couldn’t take it.
And he doesn’t deserve more pain.
He’s a good man. James McCoy is, and always will be, the most respectable, most kind and considerate man I’ll ever meet. I love him so incredibly much, and having to count the days until he leaves my life is just… unbelievable. I never thought I’d have to do something this terrible.
I get home and I see his guitar in the corner. I pick it up and walk over to Lesley, who’s kicking around slightly in her cot, and strum a few chords.
All of a sudden, she’s still and silent, watching me intently in that way she does. Somehow, I feel like she knows. I feel like she knows her dad’s dieing. I feel like she knows what I’m going through. I feel like she even knows that I’m playing a tune on the guitar for her.
And I’m so proud of my bright little girl.
*
Day forty-four. September 30th, 2003.
I’m sat at James’s bedside, holding his hand and watching his face. I can’t cry. Somehow, I know he’d want me to be happy. He used to tell me everyday that if I was happy, he’d be happy. I know he’ll be looking down on me and Lesley, feeling proud and loving us.
The doctors say it won’t be long now.
So I sit and I wait. I don’t want the day, hour, minute or second to come when he walks out of my life. But I know it’s going to happen.
I’m not the only one there. His older brother sits next to me, an arm round my shoulders and his other hand on James’s with mine. I feel him shaking, and I know I am too. We going to lose him.
Suddenly, he squeezes my hand. I see a flicker of a smile across his face, and then his hand goes limp again.
The machine stops beeping.
He’s flat-lined. Lesley starts to cry at the noise and I shake her gently to hush her, but she won’t calm. So I keep shaking her, and she slowly stops crying. She knows what’s happened. I can tell.
My James is gone.
*
Two years later. September 30th, 2005.
I stand at the gravestone as the rain falls. Lesley stands next to me, her hand firmly in mine. She learned to walk when she was nine months, but she hasn’t even thought about starting to speak. She hardly even cries.
She waddles forward, bending down and placing one single pansy on the mossy heap at the foot of the headstone. I smile down at her, and place my pansy next to hers. I miss him so much, and I know that Lesley, in her own way, misses him too.
Sometimes, I feel like she knows who he was.
Other times, I wish she knew more.
Picking up Lesley and holding her close, I brush the wet hair out of her face. She smiles her gorgeous childish smile, and I get that overwhelming sensation of pride again. I love her so much.
“Daddy,” I say, pointing at his headstone.
She looks up at me, with that look she has. The one she’s had since she first opened her eyes. The one that makes her look like she’s listening. Only this time, it looks like there’s an ounce of misunderstanding, and quite possibly a hint of confusion I only see rarely in my little girls eyes.
“Daddy…” she says, pointing at the headstone also.
My eyes well up and I hug her close. Her arms wrap round me and she hugs me back. I kiss her and she kisses me like only a child can.
It’s almost as if she saved her first word for her daddy. She was right there, standing over his grave. It sends shivers up my spine and I realize the sense of irony. And I can’t even put across how proud it makes me that her first word would be that one.
If only he’d been here to see it.
♠ ♠ ♠
Well?