Saying Goodbye

[Aaron's Story - Part Five]

The sun was setting as Debbie and I drove up to the hospital that May 16th evening. Setting on our day of agonized waiting, setting on the 7th of Iyar in the Jewish calendar, a date I will forever after remember as Aaron's last full day in this world. Most of all, the sun was setting on every aspect of the life our family had known until just three days earlier. Aaron's deathwatch was winding down, and the only thing we could do, our sole remaining parental duty to our oldest son, was to be by his side one last time.

As we entered the hospital, I was hit with a sudden sensation of being trapped, of virtual will-lessness. It felt like I had stepped into a world where events were predetermined, with all of us - the doctors, Debbie and I, even Aaron - merely playing our assigned parts. Was this my mind's way of protecting me from what was to come, psychological anesthesia to deaden the pain of a trauma that no unprotected soul could endure?

In this somewhat numb state, I arrived with Debbie on the Pediatric ICU floor, where we found Debbie's mom and aunt sitting in the glass-walled waiting room just outside the elevators. They had been visiting Aaron when the doctors came to run his final set of brain function tests, which were still underway. Glad for the additional company - and for this temporary reprieve from the inescapable - we joined them.

The four of us made conversation, trying to find some way to dispel the darkness within, even as the darkness outside began to deepen. We talked about Aaron, wondered how we would all get by without him. I kept trying - uselessly - not to stare at the closed hospital ward doors, watching for a sign that the tests were complete and the doctors were ready to see us.

My friend P. arrived to provide some added strength. As if on cue (how unreal and scripted everything felt!), just as he entered, the doctors called for us. The moment had arrived. Leaving the others behind, Debbie and I turned and walked together into the hospital ward.

In yet another small office - yet another antechamber before we could enter the theater where the final act of our horror show would play out - the doctors shared the results we had feared and expected. The second set of tests had demonstrated no change from the earlier run. Brain death had now been verified according to legal standards, as well as those of our halachik advisor. As per our instructions, the nurses were prepared to discontinue the IV medications and other artificial provisions. All they needed was a final authorization from us.

There are no words, there are no concepts within human comprehension, to describe my torment and misery at that moment. The only lucid thought I could hold onto, was the blind faith that we had made the most right choice possible, in the most horribly wrong situation conceivable.

The preliminaries were over. Together, Debbie and I entered the hospital room where Aaron's peaceful, unconscious form lay. He seemed to be in a deep sleep, untroubled by the pain and grief of those he was leaving behind.

Debbie's mom and aunt came in to say their tearful goodbyes to Aaron. Then, without a word from us, they turned back towards the waiting room where P. was already holding vigil. By unspoken accord, Debbie and I alone were to be with Aaron for his final journey.

Full night had fallen. It was time for maariv, the evening service. I took one of the siddurim [prayerbooks] which Aaron and I had used on that final Shabbos together (could it have been just two days ago??) and began to pray aloud.

Before I reached the opening words of the Shema prayer, I was openly sobbing, oblivious to all around me, crying harder than I had at any time during our brief, tragic ordeal. Never before had I prayed with such kavanna, such intensity of emotion. Not on the best Yom Kippur of my life, not even close. Never ever.

"Shema Yisroel, Hashem Elokeynu, Hashem Echad!"

These words poured from my lips, coming directly from the deepest part of my heart. I was saying them not just for myself, but for Aaron, speaking the words that, from time immemorial, have been on the lips on Jews as they lay on their deathbeds.

As I proceeded through the brief service, certain phrases - words I had mouthed literally tens of thousands of times in the past without giving them much thought - seemed to be fully meaningful for the very first time.

"vishinantum livanecha" - "and you shall teach them to your children". How much of what made Aaron unique and special had he learned from his parents? And how many opportunities for instruction or example had we squandered or blundered, busy with foolishness or distracted by the stressors of everyday life?

"mechaye hameysim" - "who resurrects the dead". My faith in the afterlife had never seemed so concrete, so functional. Without it, without a deep conviction that Aaron's essence would continue in a higher plane of existence, I would have been completely finished, utterly without hope of consolation.

"refa'eynu Hashem vi'neyrafe" - "heal us God, and we will be healed". Was it still possible to think in terms of "healing" for Aaron, to look for impossible miracles even now? Or was it the broken hearts of those he was leaving behind, that now needed God's mending touch?

I completed the Amidah, said the aleynu prayer - also, I realized, associated with Jewish martyrdom. It was time to count the omer, a special numbering of the days between Pesach and Shavous. "Today is 23 days, which are three weeks and two days in the omer." I was acutely aware that Aaron's own omer count - so symbolic of his lifespan itself - would be halted far short of completion.

While I had prayed, the nurses had apparently done their work. For the first time since Friday, Aaron lay without an IV, and without the other tubes that had invaded his body since that dreadful Saturday night, 48 hours and an eternity ago.

The only machine that was still attached to him was a heart monitor. Aaron's heart rate was still at about a normal pace, but as the doctors had told us, without the IV medications it would, little by little, begin to slow.

Debbie and I sat down near the head of Aaron's bed, one on each side. The heart monitor was behind me, and I kept turning to glance at the readout. His heartbeats appeared to be even and steady, with the number representing the rate dropping very gradually.

We talked to fill the void, reminiscing about Aaron's life; his little habits and quirks, his jokes, his characteristic sayings, cute things he had done as a baby. By tacit agreement, we avoided any discussion of what would come after tonight. Now was our last possible opportunity, our final time to focus solely on Aaron as he was, on the treasure that had been, rather than the loss that was to come.

Intermittently, we also spoke to Aaron. We said goodbye, told him how much we loved him, how we'd miss his being in our lives, how proud we had always been of him. I recited the viduy, the traditional deathbed confession, on his behalf. It felt meaningful in its own way, and yet so woefully inadequate. How I ached to be able to talk with Aaron instead of to him, to make our parting mutual! How I wanted a sign that, on some level, he was saying farewell to us as well.

All the while, the numbers on the heart rate monitor continued to drop, slowly but relentlessly. As they reached the 20 mark, our conversation began to falter, as we sensed that the end was drawing near.

And now I beg you, dear reader, to suppress your disbelief and skepticism regarding the account that I now will share, for the first time, outside of my inner circle. I freely admit that I myself, had I heard such a story a mere seven months ago, would have politely smiled and summarily dismissed it from consideration. I cannot expect more from you; I can only assure you that to the best of my ability to perceive and recall reality, the following did truly happen.

I became aware - abruptly, yet without an exact impression of when it began - of an odd internal sensation. The closest word I could use to describe it would be a thrill. It was somewhat akin to the feeling of moving forward on a swing, or of a mild electrical shock. Yet not quite the same as either. It was unanticipated, and just strong enough, just definite enough, for me to be sure that it wasn't merely in my mind.

In amazement, I looked up at Debbie and asked, "Do you feel that?"

"Feel what?"

She had no idea what I was talking about. The experience, for whatever reason, was given to me alone. To this day, I can't tell you why. Perhaps it was simply that I was on the side of the bed towards the room's entrance, and thus sat between Aaron and the door. Or perhaps it was I that had the greatest need for closure, having missed being with Aaron when he lost consciousness for the last time.

Whatever the explanation, I fervently and resolutely believe that what I sensed that night was Aaron's spirit leaving this world behind, and taking a last opportunity to say goodbye to his father, to reassure me that he really was on his way to bigger and better things.

The strange sensation continued for about a minute, then faded away. With an indescribable mix of apprehension and fascinated expectation, I turned to face the heart monitor.

The number on the screen read: 0.

Aaron was gone.

to be concluded

Link to Aaron's Story: Part Six