Today marks fifteen months since Zachary's last breath. One and a quarter years already.
C.T. told me, plainly, while brushing his teeth this morning, that July 20th will be eighteen months. From the minute we told him Zachary was going to die, he has been obsessed with the days and dates of his brother's short life. He will check in with me from time to time, confirming he still knows the timing of significant events... They started giving Zachary those antibiotics on Wednesday, right? You thought he was getting better on Friday the 17th, but then they told you he had the brain bleed the same day, right? He is still angry that we weren't able to tell him about Zachary's prognosis, and the plan to remove his life support, until Sunday. C.T. is still trying to piece it all together, to grasp how his very real brother was doing great but now sits in ashes on our bedroom dresser.
I had a rare dinner out tonight with a few bereaved mothers from my support group and wasn't home for the evening routine. C.T. yelled out for B, just after he had been tucked into bed. He was crying as he uttered the question he has asked again and again, the one for which the answer is simply too late for meaningful remedy,
Daddy, would Zachary still be alive now if the doctors would have done something sooner? When mom knew something was wrong?
B held him and they cried together because that is all we can do. The price we have collectively paid for the decisions and omissions and delays, for the situation being just short of a close call for Zachary, is astronomical.