Early March 2011:
Tyler, I had to go sit in your room, just so I could feel close to you again. I sense you are slipping away and I don’t want to let you go. The very thought of that brings tears to my eyes and makes it difficult to even breathe. I sit on your bed, looking around your room and it is full of memories of you. Hockey sticks in the corner; you loved playing floor hockey. A guitar leaning against the wall; you were learning how to play and the sound you made often scared the cats. Why is it that parts of your room are a total mess, newspapers laying here and there, clothes scattered on the floor, yet your uniforms for work are neatly hanging in your closet? Boxes of CDs are stacked there too.
Sadly, there is also an old hospital bag from when you were discharged after the first surgery laying on the bed, and next to that are the unopened Christmas presents that are waiting for you. Ugly memories of the past few weeks lay next to the fonder memories of you playing loud music. I don’t want to let you go.
I also went and found old pictures of you as a baby, a child and an adult. It hurts to know these might be all the pictures that I will have of you. There might not be any pictures of you with your children or your future significant other. You were just getting set to fly on your own and test your wings. You often talked of saving up for school and future career choices. I can still hear the excitement in your voice when you shared your dreams for the future. Tyler, I don’t want to let you go. Every part of me is refusing to let you go, but I feel there is quiet calm that will give me the strength to hold up. I sense that when it is time for me to let go of your hand, you will be at peace and at a place where there is no more pain. Until then I am grateful for each day that I can feel the warmth of your hand and the kindness of friends who are supporting me during this dark moment in my life.
Later March 2011:
Monday morning. I woke up quickly and glanced over to the hospital bed to see if my son was still with us. My son was losing his brave fight with a brain tumour and family members were spending the last moments with him. It has been a little over four months since the diagnosis and I was feeling a sense of disbelief at how quickly I was losing him. I had only hours, not a lifetime left with my son.?
I got up and went over to his bed and gave him a hug and kiss. It felt great to hug him without any tubes or machines in my way. Just feeling the warmth of his cheeks and hands gave me a false sense of hope that he would be alright. But then I would listen to his laboured breathing and the reality of the situation would hit me. My son was dying, and soon.
I put some gospel music on and washed my face. I walked around the tiny room. My son’s dad, Lenny, was there as was my son’s auntie Pauline. I was planning on going home for about an hour to wash up, but Tyler’s last moments were near, so instead I phoned Rev. Margaret Mullin, of Winnipeg Inner City Missions to let her know that Tyler’s breathing had changed.
I went and sat by his bed and remembered fondly the moments that I first brought him home as a baby. How I kept touching him. Smelling the newborn – ness. Examining his tiny fingers and toes, awed by how perfect they seemed to me. Now my son was 24 years old. I again touched his arms and hands, gently. Put my head on his hand and let my tears flow.
I noticed the faint smell of Lenny’s cigarette smoke mixed with our son’s unique smell. I was trying my best to memorize his features, his smell and how he felt, the warmth of his hands and face. I needed to capture these memories. Lenny was also doing what he could to capture his private memories of our son by tenderly washing his face, ears and hands. Clipping his toenails and making sure his fingernails were neatly trimmed. Just like when our son was a baby.
Just then, Rev. Margaret stepped into the room; she had brought lunch. We sat around the bedside and ate. I glanced at the clock wishing that I could turn it back. Back to when my son was healthy and full of life. Suddenly there was a change in my son’s breathing and I put my hand on his chest, his heart was beating rapidly. I glanced at the reverend, then Lenny told us he needed to step out for awhile.
I was still sitting by my son’s bedside holding his hand, Pauline at the end of the bed holding his feet, and Rev. Margaret was holding his other hand. I kept telling my son that I loved him and that I would be alright, and then I realized that he would be missing me also. I put my hand up to his cheek and felt his face nudging it gently.
My son was in a deep coma and shouldn’t have been able to move at all. My son was letting me know that he loved me. Earlier he was twitching his finger when his dad was sitting next to him and giving his auntie slight hand squeezes. My baby was letting us know he loved us. It was 1:20 and my son was taking his last breaths. I was breathing with him until Rev. Margaret told me to breath normally.
Five minutes later, my son was shrugging his shoulders as he was throwing off his physical body and breathing his last gasp and then I actually saw something leave his body. The reverend asked my sister, Pauline to get the nurse, who came to check his vitals. There was still a heartbeat but very weak. Then at 1:45, my son’s eyes opened and they were very clear. I wish I could have seen what he was looking at, at that moment. Awe and light were what I saw in his eyes. Then my son’s face went very pale and his heart ceased to beat.
My baby was gone.
When my son’s last moments came, it was very peaceful. I held his hand. I think Tyler waited for his dad to leave the room before he left, maybe knowing this was very difficult for his dad. When his dad came back into the room, Rev. Margaret told Lenny our son was gone. Lenny collapsed on his knees by the bed in tears.
Tyler Ketchum, 24, was diagnosed with a brain tumour last Thanksgiving. He had surgery just before Christmas, and again in early March. He died March 7th.
