“Honey, please come back.”

I was standing in the ER room where health care workers were trying to save Madison’s life. Brian hit the floor, overwhelmed by the reality in front of him, and was being helped into a chair. Megan couldn’t handle it and was walked back to the private room set aside for our family. I just stood there. I hadn’t really cried yet. I just looked around at all the activity, the monitors, and equipment being used to figure out why her heart wouldn’t keep beating. As one person moved away from her I asked if I could touch her. I slowly walked over and took her hand trying to dodge the stool on the floor used for the person who had done chest compressions countless times that day already. I put my hand on her head and lowered my face to her ear and told her, “Mommy, Daddy, and Megan are here. We love you so much. I’m so sorry honey, please come back.” I stayed there with my face on hers, hand in hand as long as I could until they needed to give her more medication. Eventually, I backed away and sat with Brian, watching everything unfold and asking as many questions as I could. It became clear that her heart was exhausted and wouldn’t continue without help. Help was coming from another hospital, ready to rush her to their facility and put her on ECMO. But that required her heart to survive the trip. We tried bringing Megan in again, but it was still too much for her and she was sent back to the private room. Occasionally I would get up and go touch her again, kissing her face and running my fingers through her hair like I’d done countless times in her life. Then I would move away to let them work. Eventually, the doctor took a sample of blood to check her oxygen levels and told us the final news that she was most likely brain dead at this point. She had coded 13 times and her blood pressure was so weak that not enough oxygen was getting to her brain. It was at that moment that Brian broke down, I hugged him and looked up at the doctor telling him simply, “Ok.” That was it. We weren’t leaving the hospital with our baby girl. I asked the chaplain to go get Megan and bring her to us as we readied ourselves to say goodbye. I looked Megan in the eyes and told her, “I’m so sorry, but you have to say goodbye to your sister.” As she broke down and hugged me I pushed her away to look at me in the eyes and told her that she needed to say goodbye or she would never forgive herself. Megan finally was able to walk over and hug her sister. I moved to the other side of the bed and put my hands on her head and face, kissing her forehead and tracing every curve of her nose, eyes, cheeks, lips, and chin. I wanted to remember how she felt. I stayed there as I asked doctors to take pictures of us with her until I noticed someone turning off the machines. I looked up at the doctor and asked, “Is she gone?” He nodded and I said finally, “She’s gone.” That’s when I finally cried. A quiet, painful sob that takes over your entire body. I stayed over her, hugging her for as long as I could. I took pictures of her hands, feet, and face. We had the necessary conversations and spent as much time as we felt comfortable with her before leaving the room. There’s nothing beautiful about death, and the gradual change that happens when the heart stops forever is faster than I thought. I couldn’t watch.

I can still close my eyes and feel her forehead and hand when I first walked over to her. Everything about that day is still so vivid four months later. I’ll never wish this pain on anyone. It has changed us all forever. I wish, so much, that my plea for her to come back had come true, but, to be honest, I knew when I walked in there that she was gone and those would be my last moments with her. It’s such a hard reality to accept. A piece of my heart will always be broken.