At 4:13 p.m. on a random Thursday in September 2002, the woman I was exchanged places with the one I had to become. It was not a heroic decision; it was not a decision at all-
I was jolted. Alarms and guttural fear heralded the event and an overwhelming desire to will survival into another human being overtook any pain I experienced.
for White Picket
Fences...
Quickly followed by the murky realization that I was secondary to the existence of a six pound baby struggling, grasping and clutching to remain in this world, jarred me from a past where I believed in white picket fences.
My son, Quinn’s, birth was not one of gentle memories and swaddled joy. It was one of rushing and flailing. He entered the world without a sound; he could not announce his arrival with the typical cries of a newborn; he was drowning in his own fluid. Before that day, I did not even know he was a boy and I did not know his birth and death had the chance of being closely entwined. He started life troubled, not thriving, and I was unprepared. Unprepared for my thoughts to immediately turn to “take me instead of him”; thoughts I had for a child I would never see until many hours later. I did not need to see or hold him; I was a mom and I wanted to breathe life into him. Medical personnel ripped my baby from me and rushed him to Pic lines, chest tubes and ventilators before I even got the chance to touch his cheek and revel in the miracle.
He was somewhere fighting without even drawing his own breath; I could not share mine because
I left it in the operating room.
10
By: Kelly Jones
" In a suffocating and institutionalized room beside the NICU, a Genetic Counselor opened her chart of chromosomes and announced in a cold and matter-of-fact manner that my son had Down syndrome."
Pictured left: Kelly with
her son Quinn
Searching