Memories During Our Stay 11/30/23
I spoke with my brother about our nights at the hospital. It's still hitting our family intensely, feeling like waves crashing on us. I shut so much out during our hospital time and was in a state of denial. It was so much… so much pain. Constant weeping. I was in fight or flight. Now, looking back, I can see that so clearly.
While discussing the order of events with my brother, he reminded me that the first night we were there, they found a medication that worked well for Samson. In an earlier post, I mentioned a probe attached to Samson's skull, monitoring brain pressure. I couldn't stop staring at that number on the screen. We saw it rising, hitting the 50’s at one point. The doctors had mentioned that a manageable range is generally around 20 or less from what the doctors told us. I've mentioned I'm no doctor, so I know my medical terms are far from correct. This is just part of what I remember.
They changed his medication, and he was on so many – at one time, I counted nine different tubes going into him, each carrying a different type of medication. This new medication brought down the swelling dramatically. I went from a state of absolute panic to hope and joy, thinking, "This is it! He's fighting. My boy is fighting to stay alive."
In the late hours of the night, they realized the probe was no longer working correctly. The results on the screen were skewed and no longer reporting correctly. When we heard that, I remember my brother Jacob and I looking at each other with such despair. We felt the sinking feeling coming back into the pits of our stomach. Like the air was being stripped of our lungs. Our joy, and smiles, thinking he was pulling through turned into us weeping and praying again. Just holding each other saying he has to make it. Holding onto his arm, talking to him, telling him I needed him. Because of the probe malfunctioning, that is why they decided to take Samson for that CAT scan on the first early morning we were there.
Reliving these moments is so difficult. It's a strange sensation, knowing that my brain and body have blocked out much of the trauma. While speaking with a friend who attended Samson's celebration of life, I said I felt robotic, like my body was on autopilot. I really was. It's indescribable. You don't want to keep going. You want to shut down and crawl into the deepest hole and never be found. Yet, I was so focused on giving Samson the best celebration of life, the best sendoff for one of the best boys to have ever walked this planet. It's what he deserved.
Describing these moments at the hospital is also for me to look back on one day. That's a large part of why I started this blog. I want to write while the feelings are still raw and real. I want to remember how it felt. I want Samson's memory to carry on. I want everyone to know what an amazing young man he was and let the story of his life be told.
I think my brain wanted to shut out the pain, I believe your brain does that to protect you. We had so many ups and downs, you're already spiraling from an unnatural, shocking, horrific event that shouldn't have happened. A freak accident, then having hope, feeling failure, again and again. It feels like a current you can't escape from. We were told we could take him home, then something completely different 10-15 minutes later. His vitals balanced that first night, then we got his CAT scan results, discovering the swelling got even worse. It was just one thing after another, so many colliding answers and results. For a mother, you'll forever hold out hope and want to take the good and shut the bad out.
As mentioned in a previous blog post, that fateful day, we discovered that the swelling had extended to the right side of the brain. They informed us that the next day they would assess the brain activity. Around 7 pm, approximately 200 kids had visited Samson. His youth group arrived at that same time and was brought into a room adjacent to Samson and I, they worshipped for around an hour, fervently praying for Samson. It seemed as if we were the sole occupants of the unit. In that room, the youth group engaged in worship and prayed for Samson. Those who were present, including staff and family, attested that it sounded like angels. In the face of adversity, one must never surrender hope—it's the lifeline that prevents succumbing to despair. We clung to that hope, refusing to abandon it. It was our anchor, keeping us afloat in the midst of uncertainty. Our determination was unwavering; we were not giving up on Samson.
