Dear Shmuly,
Today we attended a full-day meeting to work out the legal aspects surrounding your care. Here in England, they don’t place a high value on life that isn’t “productive.” Under UK law, if a patient is dependent on life-sustaining treatment without the prospect of significant recovery, it’s often judged to be not “in their best interests” to continue. These life-or-death decisions end up in the hands of NHS trusts and the courts. So even though every breath you took — with the help of the ventilator — meant the world to us, we knew we wouldn’t be able to fight the NHS forever.We didn’t want a court case, so Tatty and I, along with our legal team, went to many meetings as we tried to work out an agreement with the hospital administration through the courts.
Today I had to join an in-person meeting.
Last night I slept at home and noticed an empty picture frame I’d bought before Tatty and I got married. The placeholder paper read: Today is a good day. And I thought, Today is a good day, but tomorrow can’t be.
But tonight, after ten long, long hours of discussion, migraines, exhaustion, and the brick wall of a quickly-going-nowhere back-and-forth, I looked at that frame again and realized: Good is relative. Our situation isn’t great, and it looks like we’re going to have to take your case to court, but there are moments of goodness and even humor and laughter laced through all the frustration.
I’ve tried to notice the small hugs Hashem sends. That moment of sunlight on your face. The nurse who gave me a birthday card with your footprints. The friend who texts at exactly the right time.
Small hugs, but when I look for them, I find them.
Love, Mommy
June 30
Dear Shmuly,
The court process dragged on longer than we expected; hearings were postponed, and dates kept getting moved as we struggled to reach an agreementabout your long-term care — with the hospital denying that you had quality of life, and we insisting that your very existence was valuable.
First the hearing was pushed off until after Pesach. Then after Shavuos. When I heard about the latest delay, I said, “It looks like Shmuly’s going to livethrough all the Yamim Tovim!” It was another hug from Hashem, a confirmation of your life.
But I knew the end was coming, and instead of feeling robbed, I felt grateful. You could have died right away, Shmuly. Or much earlier. Every extra day was agift. And we chose to accept it.
The finalized legal decisions included one week so we could say goodbye properly. The family came. Grandparents. Siblings. Aunts. Uncles. Friends. Wecaptured those moments with you.
But the uncertainty was crushing. We didn’t know what would happen once the ventilator was removed. Would it be peaceful, or would our time together bepunctuated by alarms ringing as you struggled to breathe? Would it be minutes? Hours? How long would we have to cherish the last few moments?
Nothing was certain. But I bought you a final set of soft, cuddly pajamas, and you stayed in them until the end.
By the time Monday came, I was prepared — at least intellectually — to give you back. Nothing could prepare my emotions. The pain I carried in my heartwas excruciating, stealing my breath at the thought of losing you. But we’d been living in the shadow of this goodbye for months, and I wanted the momentto be as perfect as possible. Tatty and I were in the room with you, and everything was calm and gentle.
The hospital wanted to extubate you, but doing that could have caused you to die immediately. We needed to make sure you had a chance, so we worked tocreate a plan that would reduce your support gradually and safely. With the help of our supporters, the court honored the Torah way of doing this transition,avoiding immediate death.
The doctors switched your ventilator to a CPAP mask (a machine that gently pushes air into your lungs to help you breathe) and helped keep your airwayopen. They reduced your breathing support slowly and carefully, only when they thought you could handle it.
In the end, you surprised everyone, Shmuly. You breathed on your own for nearly ten hours.
For the first eight hours, you were perfectly calm. I held you the entire time, listening to each breath. For the first time since you were a newborn, I could seeyour whole face… no tubes or machinery covering you. And that’s the picture I remember.
One striking detail about your life is that the timing of your birth, cardiac arrest, and passing, all took place at night, the start of the new Jewish day. Every dayof your life was complete. The 16 days before the hospital and the 307 days in the hospital, 323 days in total, were all whole.
In the final two hours, you struggled for breath. I held your hand and stroked you as the sun set and the sky turned pink behind you. I whispered Shema,faltered through Hamalach, and sang softly.
And then, peacefully, you passed away.
I was there the whole time. I was always there.
We fought for you all the way, Shmuly. And in the end, you fought for yourself.
Love, Mommy
See: https://mishpacha.com/23-million-seconds/
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