REBECCA'S MOM
I first met Rebecca's mom at UCLA Medical Center in the Intensive Care Unit. It was an honor to know her, if only
for a few days. Somehow I hope this article finds it's way to her. She will then know for sure that her daughter
lives on even after all these years, and that her own courage and values have become part of me.
Both Rebecca and my son, Ben were about 18 months old, when they were lying comatose in the ICU. Their
beds separated only by a drawn curtain, and both babies were alive for the time being because of the machines
that were breathing for them.
On the day I arrived at the hospital, I felt weak, and grief stricken. Rebecca's mom walked over, looked me right
in the eye as if we had known each other all our lives, and said, "You are courageous and strong." At the time,
her words made no sense at all. She gave me an unexpected hug and then walked over to join her husband as
they sat by Rebecca's bedside.
For the few days to follow I listened to Rebecca's parents as they spoke to her and each other. There was
laughter - their voices upbeat as they recalled the good things about their lives together.
When a parent spends hours and days at the bedside of a child, listening for every breath the machine pumps,
and watching every blip of a heartbeat the monitor counts, weariness can set in. The pump might stop, and the
blips might disappear.
So, parents take walks up and down the hospital halls, searching for composure and something to renew their
faith before they return to the bedside of their child. During those walks, I often ran into Rebecca's mom. She
looked different than when she sat by Rebecca's side. Now her shoulders were drooping a bit and her head
slightly looking down. But she always would look up long enough to smile at me and with an expression of
concern on her face would ask how I was doing. Early one morning, I came across Rebecca's mom in the ladies
rest room. Her clothes were pressed, her hair was beautiful, and she was putting on lipstick so she "would look
nice for Rebecca."
She said, "Terry, last night I gave my baby the last bath I will ever give her. I brushed her hair, and with a warm
washcloth washed between every toe and every finger as I told her it was almost time to say goodbye."
For twenty-four hours, Rebecca's parents sat at her bedside and they talked, laughed and never cried so
Rebecca wouldn't be afraid. In the end, Rebecca's mom came to me and said, "She is gone, and I'm going to
miss her so much. What am I going to do?" She grabbed me and sobbed on my shoulder for what seemed like
forever. I cried too.
That was the last I saw of Rebecca's mom.
The next day I walked to the department store across the street, with the same clothes I had been wearing for
days, and no makeup on my face. I bought new clothes, lipstick and mascara and went back to sit by Ben's
bedside looking pressed and pretty for him. I spoke to him for hours at a time, sometimes laughing and never
crying. When I became weary from watching and listening to the breathing and the blips, I walked down the hall
with the other parents and asked them how they were doing telling them of their courage and strength.
On the day the doctors came in to visit Ben for the last time and told me, "You can bring him home, but he
doesn't have long," I called my friend, Dianna, and cried on her shoulder over the phone. She cried with me.
I walked out of the hospital that day carrying Ben and my newly found courage and strength. I understood better
the value of every life, and the dignity we are responsible for affording one another.
I will never forget Rebecca's mom.
I first met Rebecca's mom at UCLA Medical Center in the Intensive Care Unit. It was an honor to know her, if only
for a few days. Somehow I hope this article finds it's way to her. She will then know for sure that her daughter
lives on even after all these years, and that her own courage and values have become part of me.
Both Rebecca and my son, Ben were about 18 months old, when they were lying comatose in the ICU. Their
beds separated only by a drawn curtain, and both babies were alive for the time being because of the machines
that were breathing for them.
On the day I arrived at the hospital, I felt weak, and grief stricken. Rebecca's mom walked over, looked me right
in the eye as if we had known each other all our lives, and said, "You are courageous and strong." At the time,
her words made no sense at all. She gave me an unexpected hug and then walked over to join her husband as
they sat by Rebecca's bedside.
For the few days to follow I listened to Rebecca's parents as they spoke to her and each other. There was
laughter - their voices upbeat as they recalled the good things about their lives together.
When a parent spends hours and days at the bedside of a child, listening for every breath the machine pumps,
and watching every blip of a heartbeat the monitor counts, weariness can set in. The pump might stop, and the
blips might disappear.
So, parents take walks up and down the hospital halls, searching for composure and something to renew their
faith before they return to the bedside of their child. During those walks, I often ran into Rebecca's mom. She
looked different than when she sat by Rebecca's side. Now her shoulders were drooping a bit and her head
slightly looking down. But she always would look up long enough to smile at me and with an expression of
concern on her face would ask how I was doing. Early one morning, I came across Rebecca's mom in the ladies
rest room. Her clothes were pressed, her hair was beautiful, and she was putting on lipstick so she "would look
nice for Rebecca."
She said, "Terry, last night I gave my baby the last bath I will ever give her. I brushed her hair, and with a warm
washcloth washed between every toe and every finger as I told her it was almost time to say goodbye."
For twenty-four hours, Rebecca's parents sat at her bedside and they talked, laughed and never cried so
Rebecca wouldn't be afraid. In the end, Rebecca's mom came to me and said, "She is gone, and I'm going to
miss her so much. What am I going to do?" She grabbed me and sobbed on my shoulder for what seemed like
forever. I cried too.
That was the last I saw of Rebecca's mom.
The next day I walked to the department store across the street, with the same clothes I had been wearing for
days, and no makeup on my face. I bought new clothes, lipstick and mascara and went back to sit by Ben's
bedside looking pressed and pretty for him. I spoke to him for hours at a time, sometimes laughing and never
crying. When I became weary from watching and listening to the breathing and the blips, I walked down the hall
with the other parents and asked them how they were doing telling them of their courage and strength.
On the day the doctors came in to visit Ben for the last time and told me, "You can bring him home, but he
doesn't have long," I called my friend, Dianna, and cried on her shoulder over the phone. She cried with me.
I walked out of the hospital that day carrying Ben and my newly found courage and strength. I understood better
the value of every life, and the dignity we are responsible for affording one another.
I will never forget Rebecca's mom.
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