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So, today I want to continue on with my personal story from the week of April 5, 2005, when I lost my son, Austin (which I posted about yesterday – you can click here to read it if you missed my post).
That next day I was still in the hospital. My lungs were needing to be checked for fluids because of the magnesium that had caused them to fill. My chest just ached but I was not sure it was my lungs or my heart breaking into a million pieces.
The day itself is somewhat blurry for me. Part of the day are missing from my memory and no matter how hard I try I cannot seem to get all of the moments back of those few days.  That is part of the PTSD I would end up being diagnosed with.
I remember a few people in the room trying to discuss funeral arrangements – but I really didn’t care. Our families were trying to say and do the right things but I am not sure anything they said or did would have mattered much. At one point, I do know I told them they should have just let me die with Austin instead of taking me off the medication that could have saved his life and kept me from delivering him.
Yes. I actually blamed my family for saving my life because I was in such a bad place I was wishing I was dead too.
Despite my massive loss of time and memory gaps I remember one very specific conversation with my nurse, Vicky. She came in and was checking me and said “now I know that the one thing you really want I can’t give you but if you need anything I can do for you please just tell me so I can help”.
That sentence is one that I will never forget. Why? Because she wasn’t trying to brush off my pain or make me feel better like everyone else. She knew I was crushed, hurting, feeling an intolerable level of heartbreak and no one could just or do anything to take it away.
I wanted that pain. It was all I had left.
See, when you are in a place of such a huge loss, nothing much can help. I firmly believe the only thing that was helping me was that inner strength I would discover much later – and the help of God’s comfort. And that one seemingly small sentence from Nurse Vicky.
That sort of hopelessness exists in so many lives. And through my recovery process and finding this voice I now have I want to make sure that others realize they CAN get through their darkest hours. Is it easy? NO WAY! I would be a liar if I said it was. But those people – and myself – that is why I became a coach! To rescue others the way I have rescued myself.