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"The blissful sweet joy of
your birth
The inconsolable sadness of your death
The depth of this sorrow – so unfathomable – dark and still
It engulfs me, washes over my bones, spirals past joyful memories of you
And with a thud, it lands in my heart – uninvited and unwanted grief."
– Jennifer J. Martin
The Screaming Room
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| February 5, 1991 "Your son may have suffered a stroke." Those were the words from the nurse who called our home from the Medical Center Hospital in San Antonio, Texas. My husband, John, hurriedly drove us to the hospital. He dropped me off at the emergency room entrance while he parked the car. Rushing inside, I discovered a throng of people seated and standing, all waiting for treatment for themselves or family members. After telling the receptionist who I was, she confirmed Kelly was in the emergency room and directed me to a small room down the hall, just outside the emergency room, where I should wait. "A doctor will be out to talk with you in a minute," she said. I found the private waiting room and was immediately struck by how hollow and sterile the space felt: blank walls, a small vinyl couch and two chairs, a metal trash can, a box of Kleenex. I took a seat on the edge of the black couch. Looking around, I thought it odd but very considerate of the clerk to allow us to wait in this room away from the crowd in the main lobby. Moments later John appeared at the doorway of the small room, then sat beside me. He held my hand, and we talked quietly, speculating about how Kelly might be doing. Shortly, a small group of hospital personnel, all dressed in white, assembled at the door. I overheard one man whisper to the man standing next to him, "Someone said he was 35 or 40." How odd. Who were these people talking about? It was a Through the Looking Glass kind of feeling. Reality came into focus once again as the woman in front of the group began to speak. She introduced herself as the attending physician, asked if we were Kelly Hales’ parents, then began to tell us of Kelly’s condition upon his arrival at the hospital. "His body was flaccid when the ambulance brought him in," she said. I didn’t understand until later that this meant soft and limp. He had been breathing, and they attempted to intubate him without success. They were forced to perform a tracheotomy to provide an airway. She continued to tell me details of the procedures they had performed when suddenly I realized she had not told us how Kelly was doing now. My awareness was like the pause between breaths. Something was coming. It was coming next and it would expand and contract inside of me without my assistance. I was not in control. A silent knowing filled my soul. "Is he gone?" I interrupted abruptly, cutting off the doctor in mid-sentence. There was that split second of wavering between the dream and reality. "Yes," she said softly. My right leg began to spasm, bouncing up and down uncontrollably; my body convulsed and shook in disbelief. Sentences lined up behind my blank, staring eyes and exploded in my mind. Oh my God, no. This can’t be true. This isn’t true. There must be some mistake. Kelly did not have a heart attack and die. My son is not dead. "I’m so sorry to tell you your son is dead," the doctor continued. "We did all we could to save him." She asked me if I would like to see Kelly. I thought for a second, then declined. The sight of my dead son would give me no peace. I visualized him with a slit and bandaged throat. From all the past years of Kelly’s surgeries and hospital stays, my mind was full enough of chafing visions, already a cognitive warehouse, stacked to the rafters of my brain: hospital corridors, swinging doors, snaking drainage tubes and beeping machines. Suddenly, an old memory flooded my mind: the eerie whoosh of a respirator breathing for my son. A tear trickled down his face, my child, only 12 years old then, unable to speak to me of his needs. "Are you in pain?" I had asked. He shook his head. "It’s just all of this, isn’t it?" He nodded. Too much for a young man to endure, too much for his mother to watch. Full enough was my hospital album of painful images. I didn’t need to add another to my collection. I just wanted to remember him the way I saw him that morning, alive and smiling. "If you change your mind, just let someone know," the attending physician said. Then, she turned away. The interns followed her, all disappearing behind the painted, metal swinging doors where I knew Kelly’s body lay. John and I sat there in shock, waiting. They had told us someone would be coming to speak with us about Kelly’s belongings. "Try to be calm," John said. Inside, I felt dead. John and I continued to wait in what we later learned was called the "screaming room". About twenty minutes later, a man in his mid-30s appeared at the door, wearing small gold-rimmed glasses. Speaking softly, he introduced himself as a representative from the organ donor program. "Because of your son’s small stature, his veins and heart arteries could be used for babies and young children," he told us. He then said he would give us some time to think about it and would return shortly. Before he turned to leave, he also mentioned they could use Kelly’s corneas for transplant. Now alone, John and I talked about donating Kelly’s veins and arteries. We concluded this would be something Kelly would want. He would want to help anyone he could, but especially children. Kelly adored children and had always wished he could have married and been a father. By the time the man from the organ donor program returned, we had made our final decisions. We agreed to his initial request but declined the cornea tissue donation. These were my son’s beautiful eyes, and I could not bear the thought of the procedure. The veins and arteries would have to be sufficient. I signed the papers, and the man thanked us for giving the gift of life. Within a few minutes, the other papers concerning Kelly’s belongings arrived. A phone call was received from his attending physician, indicating that an autopsy would not be required. The hospital staff informed us they would retrieve the tissue donations. Then Kelly’s body would be taken to the funeral home. John and I walked out of the automatic doors of the hospital and into the beginning of a sunset, probably one of the most beautiful I had ever seen. How could this be? John held on to me as we walked to the car, both of us still in shock. A day that began with a morning rainbow was coming to an end. But another journey had already begun. It would lead me down a passageway to the belly of my soul, through meandering corridors illuminated by nothing but tears – a labyrinth of darkened chambered rooms where pieces of my shattered heart and soul now lay. |
