I gave up trying to sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, the terrifying images from yesterday’s haunting
morning would surface to my mind. Instead of dwelling on the sickening fear and
disbelief, I pulled open my laptop and began to write:
Twenty-four hours ago in one more hour, at 8:40am, I walked into the
nursery to check on my baby, Ty. I didn't see him because he was under his
blanket. And when I tore it off, I found my baby. He had died in his sleep. In
that moment, despite the sickest of fears in my stomach, I was able to give CPR
to him. A calmness came over me, that I could think logically and be able to
adjust Ty's body so the breaths would go in, and that the compressions I gave
were how they should be. I was able to do this while Dan was on the phone with
the police. By the time he gave the information, an officer was inside our home
in thirty seconds. He took over, allowing my hysteria to set in.
I won't go into the details of the immense fear and panic that took over Dan and me—or the unbearable grief when the circle of nurses and doctors stopped using their medical equipment on our son at the hospital. I already wrote that down in a separate, personal account—hoping I could get the images and sound of our shrieking voices out of my head. But I can't. Every time I close my eyes, that morning replays over and over unmercifully in my mind. And that is not how I want to remember my son. Our son. Our perfect little gift from Heavenly Father that changed our lives and so many others in the short time he was here with us. We know Ty was too good for this world—that his soul is perfect, and that he lives, waiting to reunite with us. He will always be our son, and we will always be a family. Were it not for the truthfulness of this gospel, I could not bear it.
At the hospital, we were allowed to hold our son for the next hour and a half. He looked so beautiful and peaceful, even in death. He was wrapped in a white blanket, and as I held his body against my chest, I kissed the tiny bridge between his eyes—just like I always did before putting him to sleep.
Sleep my little angel, who I know will be watching over us and waiting for his mother and father to live righteous lives on this earth and be with him again. He is our motivator. Because we know we will be with him again after this mortal life if we live good lives.
Thank you for your thoughts and prayers. Yesterday was the hardest day of our lives. And we hope today will be the second hardest day, and tomorrow the third... that it will get easier each passing day. Since yesterday morning, I can feel the Spirit wrapping around us and comforting us. And in those moments, I am calm and feel so at peace, knowing Ty was welcomed home by his Grandpa Kiefer—who was able to send him on his way to earth, and receive him back with open arms. He was not alone. He was not afraid.
My mortal, physical self can't help but relinquish to the grief and anguish that is ours to bear. And it's ok to hurt. To be confused and broken inside. As long as Heavenly Father continues to persevere with his comforting spirit, we will be ok.
It's going to hurt for a long, long time. No parents should go through this—no matter how old their child is. But we will heal. I have faith in that. Dan and I have the most amazing family and friends, who literally swarmed around us all day and night—even if it took planes or cars to get here.
We love you and thank you,
Erica and Dan
Through this letter, I
announced to our family and friends that our four-and-a-half-month old son, our
only child, had passed away. However, just as important, I shared a piece of my
testimony—a testimony that I would rely on and allow to substantially grow as
my husband and I traveled through the gauntlet of grief, escaping miraculously
with healing wounds.
It would not be the last personal account that I wrote for others to see. Unable to honestly express myself in person, I continued to write on my blog. The entries that follow are taken directly from my online journal, capturing every heartbreak of losing my son, but most importantly, recording my spiritual growth as I came to understand that a loving Heavenly Father would not let us suffer alone.
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