***Colin Powell is in the building! I repeat, COLIN POWELL IS IN THE BUILDING!!!***
When I was 16, my mother was pregnant with her 2nd child. I was happy to finally get a sibling, so much so that I begged her to let me name him. I went through thousands of different names, but couldn't pick one. Every month I'd come up with one, but it just didn't sound right to me.
One night in November, a couple of days before Thanksgiving, my mom's water broke right before I came in from hanging out with friends. We raced to the hospital, and she stayed in labor for the entire night.
At around 3 in the morning, a doctor came in and said that somehow, the umbilical cord had wrapped around his neck, and they'd have to act quickly if they were to get him out. Now before you try to guess the ending, they acted quickly enough so that he was born breathing, but he wasn't born healthy. He suffered extensive brain damage from the suffocation, his skin hadn't fully developed and was very, very fragile and he had some form of Down's syndrome. "Something-18" is all I can remember about the disorder.
But all of that was unknown to me. I was waiting in the hallway this whole time, when her husband came out. All he said to me was "your mom wants to see you." It was around 5 or 6 in the morning now. I walk into the room and hear my mother's distinct cry. To this day the sound still shakes me to my core. She told me that he, my brother, is fighting for his life right now, and the chance that he'll survive were slim at best. I held onto her until the doctor came into the room, then re-explained the situation to us.
"Your son wouldn't be able to survive on his own, we have him on an oxygen machine to help him breathe, but he's in pain right now..." First words from my mouth were, "Can't you put him on life support? What can you do to help him get better?" The doctor responded that life support, or any other thing that they might do for him, would end up doing more harm to him. His skin was too delicate to pierce with a needle, and if they'd have taped an IV to him, the tape would tear his skin off. We were helpless, we were hopeless.
The doctor asked us if we'd like to hold him in his final hours, and we immediately said yes. By this time, my grandparents and godmother had all made it to the hospital, his family was all there. A nurse rolled him into the room, wrapped in a single blanket. It was blue, with little yellow horses on it (god, I still remember the blanket!). She layed him on my mom's chest, and he could be heard inhaling deeply, even through the crying.
My mother held him for a couple of minutes before handing him to his father. It was then that I noticed his little arm had a hospital bracelet on it. As his dad held him, I took a closer look, "Baby Boy," followed by the parent's last name. He didn't have a name yet.
He was supposed to be born the day before Christmas. Christmas time always reminded me of the happiness of family, togetherness, and children. Children believing that Santa Claus brought them their presents. Santa Claus was also known as St. Nick. Nicholas. He has a First Name.
He was actually born early, and set to die the same day. Rushed into this world, and onto the next. Fate should be so cruel. He will never learn to read, crawl, or love. He's been called back to heaven. Called back to heaven... By Gabriel's Horn. Gabriel. He has a Middle Name.
"Nicholas Gabriel," I said aloud while holding his tiny hand. And as if he could understand me, he let out a sigh. A wave of sadness engulfed the room. I broke down and became light-headed. I had to sit down. My godmother held him next. She's very emotional, and couldn't bear to get attached to someone so soon, only to have him taken away. Especially a child. At least that's what I got from her this day.
My grandmother held him next. She was always strong, always. I can't remember seeing her cry outright, she's always either left the room, or blamed it on dust getting in her eye. Today was different. Nicholas opened his eyes for the first time since being in the room. My grandmother quickly, and carefully went over to his parents, making sure that if he didn't open them again, he'd surely know where he had came from, and who would miss him the most.
My turn. I was now seated at the foot of my mom's bed, my godmother showed me how to position my arms as grandma laid him in them. He was so small, and light. I put my first two fingers on his chest, gently feeling for a heartbeat. It was still there. Faintly, but there. "Your name is Nicholas Gabriel. You tell them that you are loved here, okay?"
I kissed his forehead, and put his tiny hand around my finger. Three minutes later, he took a deep breath. It would be his last one.
He lived for a little over 7 hours that day, but he felt a lifetime worth of love within that time. My brother died in my arms. At 16 years old, it struck a chord in the song of my lifetime that I thought wouldn't exist. To this day, whenever I go to visit my brother's gravesite, I still break down in tears. I was fighting back tears even writing this.
I don't remember the ambulance ride or the stomach pumping because i was out cold. all i remember was getting fucked up and then waking up in the hospital bed looking over and seeing moms and thinking "oh shit I'm in trouble! I better pretend I'm still sleep before see she me."
