The most beautiful moments in the world

Cora is sleeping and she is safe as I write this.

But today we experienced the scariest, most serious moment of our entire journey up until now.  In the road of ups and downs, it was the downest down yet.

We left last night around 1am, and Cora was definitely struggling. When I called at about 5:45, the nurse said she had been having a hard night, so I decided to come back in and let Jason get some much needed sleep. It was obvious Cora was very sick when I got here. Her oxygen saturation was very low and she had a bluish hue throughout her little body. One of her lungs had developed a fluid pocket, her immune system was mounting a big response to something unknown, and she was working very hard to breathe.

The morning unfolded with Cora getting lots of attention, more tests, more medications, and more therapies. She went on hi flow oxygen to provide more respiratory support, and they went up and up on the levels until she was receiving the maximum possible assistance. She still seemed to be in pain and uncomfortable, so there was a lot of pain medication given, and her oxygen saturation stayed low.

I was worried about her, and there was a heavy feeling in the room.

At about 10, Jason arrived at the hospital and so did his parents, Grammie and Papa. We were visiting and loving on Cora, as usual. Then shortly after they arrived, Jason and I were talking about Cora's color and how she didn't look good at all. Our wonderful nurse suggested we do a little procedure to help her breathing. Jason and I were standing on one side of the bed, helping, and our nurse was on the other when things deteriorated over a few seconds. Our nurse yelled for help and for Jason to push the "code" button.

Cora had stopped breathing and turned completely blue. You could see on the monitor that her heart had ceased beating, and that the pacemaker had kicked in to provide a minimum amount of beats. But she didn't have any pulses, and she wasn't herself there.

The next twenty minutes will forever be imprinted on me in slow motion -- each person, each movement, each word. At first all I heard was a loud alarming in my head, a sound that drowned out every other noise. I later realized it was the sound of the alarm triggered by the code button Jason had pushed, but it was a fitting soundtrack for the way I felt.

Then this incredible orchestra of people filed into the room, with twenty or so just outside the room, and each person began doing his or her individual job. We lived what we have all seen a hundred times on ER or Gray's Anatomy. We watched, helpless, as they bagged breaths into Cora and performed chest compressions on her as she lay there sideways in the bed like a little lifeless doll. They called for and administered medications. After what felt like an eternity, her little heart snapped itself back and you could see her begin to move her arms and legs. They put in a breathing tube to stabilize her, and slowly things calmed from there. It was amazing to see the skill and love this team of caregivers infused into her with each deliberate movement they made.

Jason and I watched the entire episode in the room, side by side.

It is a tremendous and humbling thing to watch your child balance on the tiny needle between life and death, and to watch the big serious stuff of life be decided right in front of you. I know from my own experience that life's most painful moments are also the most beautiful. In normal life and normal time, you spend so much time trying to control things. Get the kids to bed on time, don't be late, make it happen. But in moments like that, you have to surrender it all, open your hands and let it all go. And to see life with that clarity is an incredible gift.

There was a moment during those slow minutes where I felt a giant and pure and profound love wash over me. My child. My beautiful and perfect girl. How wildly lucky we are to have such a special girl, and how much my love for her would wash over the entire city if it could be seen or touched. How much I could devour each chub on her, or each delicate little toe. I really would eat her if it was allowed or possible.

And in that same moment that the boundless love washed through me, I truly did feel her soul snap-to and settle in, as if to say, I'm not leaving.

That love I felt, that ginormous love, became a feeling that she will be okay. She reassured me in her magic way of calming everyone and erasing fear.

This afternoon and evening she has been very peaceful. She's sedated and very comfortable. The ventilator is breathing for her so that she can rest, and the pacemaker is safely in place and will catch her heart if it tries to take any breaks. She's behaving herself for the time being.

I keep putting my cheek on her chubbies (the sides of those chunky thighs) and the soft of her peachy head. She is so utterly precious.

She has climbed out of another hole back into my arms, and into the open arms of all those out there who love her and cheer for her from a distance.