His name is Tanner Ryan.
The following is part of a paper I wrote in college.
After almost a week of this, I had become used to the routine. The nurse was the same each day, but I had to show my wristband to see my son in the NICU. Every day after seeing it, she would ask my name and take her time writing it down before finally unlocking the doors. Tanner is nine days old and six of those days have been in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. I keep my eyes on the floor as I walk down the hallway because it’s easier. If I look to the left, I will see all those happy families with babies who are thriving.
The ones who are going to make it home. I can hear them grow quieter with each step. They know me, and they know my son is in the room at the end. It’s the room set apart to make it easier to grieve the living as they die. In his doorway, a nurse calls me, “Miss? The doctor would like to speak with you in the big conference room. This way, please.” She promptly turns and leads me down another hallway.
Between the chill in the air and her aversion to meet my eyes, I know something big has happened. I can feel the panic rising in my chest and the moment I walk in the room grows quiet. I am standing before a whole crowd. There are at least three doctors, four or five nurses, and two people in plain clothes. “I am sorry to inform you that we have officially agreed on your son’s condition which now is described as brain death.” For the next hour, we talk about what it means to be brain dead, whether I am willing to allow them to take pieces of my son to save others. We begin planning his funeral. What he will wear, where he will go, how he will get there.
There is a process for all of this, one that we are rewriting as we go. This is their first time handling an Interrupted Sudden Unexpected Infant Death Syndrome case fully within their own walls. We talk about how the three neurosurgeons (adult, adolescent, and neonatal) all had to agree and about donating his heart valves. I no longer let myself cry or even think. There is no time for tears, only blurred faces, and forgotten names. I make these final arraignments for my son; it is all I cling to now.
My night is sleepless and filled with nightmares that don’t go away when the sun rises. It is fitting though to feel this way like I deserve it. In the bright morning light as I walk to the hospital the next morning, I look around and feel almost alien. I am no longer of this world but set apart from it. One-half of my heart is already beginning its journey to the unknown territory that is death. My body and mind alternate between feeling too much and being too numb. Entering Tanner’s room feels entirely surreal.
I am presented with gift bags filled with ways to remember my son. Plaster molds of hands and feet are made as well as prints to remember each tiny line on his toes. Four nurses attend both Tanner and I as we make memories to take home in his place. We bath him carefully and dress him in the outfit I selected. It is a winter outfit covered in bears made complete with a matching teddy bear to bury alongside him. The furry ears on the hood feel like butter as I smooth them into place. It is not a somber outfit, but it was the best that we could find.
Every time I’d feel my heart shattering more the women would hold me, give me time to process, and then strengthen me for we need to do next. My mother sits in the window, staying to herself. She can’t cope and so is treating the day as any other. Before we know it, the time has come, and the room is emptied as if our grieving will be so large that it will fill the room completely. They quickly remove all his tubes and monitors. Tanner is placed in my arms for the last time and for just a moment I let myself forget why I am holding him.
His blonde hair looks like peach fuzz poking out from his hood. I envision his whole life from learning to walk and talk to marrying his high school sweetheart. I can taste the cake at his wedding and feel the feather lightweight of his college diploma as he hands it to me. Then my eyes clear and I am faced with reality. The only ones in the room are Tanner, my mother, and I.
He had been born a month early but for three days, three beautiful days he had been fine. March 12, 2007, at 2 a.m. that all changed when the night nurse stopped in to do quick vitals check and found him literally blue. That was my 19th birthday, and I spent it waiting for a chance to see my son again, which didn’t happen until about six o’clock in the evening. Calling loved ones and praying to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in. Every day after that was like riding a sailboat in the middle of a hurricane; just when I thought the coast was in sight, another wave would crash in. Each moment felt like both a mere second and eternity wrapped in one.
I held Tanner’s hand and whispered in his ear that I loved him to many times to count. The nurse and my mother both encouraged me to tell him it was okay to go. That was one thing I couldn’t do, I am selfish, and it was not okay. At seven-fifteen the evening of March 19, 2007, the doctor declared him dead. His body was rushed away for his organ donation, and I had to leave him behind to prepare the funeral home for his arrival. I spent the two-hour drive home explaining my full medical history to a Life Share representative so that the donation wouldn’t be in vain. It wasn’t until my mother parked the car in her driveway and I caught a glimpse of his empty car seat in the back that I fully fell apart.
Thank you for taking the time to honor Tanner by reading a small part of his story. His birthday was really tough for me this year and I expect his death day won't exactly be easy. So I'm posting now to have a place to talk him both as it approaches and after it passes. Just a small corner, hidden from my family, to send my love and pain into the void.
Feel free to post but I don't know that I'll fully reply. It's difficult to without fully breaking down.
Also, I plan to write more of his story in later posts. I want to warn anyone reading now that Tanner's death is not the only triggering thing, there was an abusive relationship, depression, as well as stalking and kidnapping. It is not a tale for the kind-hearted nor for those easily upset. I'm sorry. Once a year I have to let it out and I have no other options right now that doesn't upset or worry my family.