My darling Molly, the irony as I write to you now is that I have spent much of my career as a pediatric psychologist providing clinical care to children and their families in the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU). At first glance, the PICU is austere. Glass doors, bleak walls, minimal color. It is quiet and loud, the beeps of the 10 different IV pumps are sometimes overwhelming, the alarms from the ventilator jarring. But during the 50 days I spent with you here, I saw a very different side of this unit. I listened as these relentless noises faded into the background. Words of care, knowing, seeing, and acknowledging became the music that I heard, the soundtrack of the hardest seven weeks of my life.
These voices first belonged to strangers, speaking in a language I had yet to learn, explaining truths I did not want to hear. Over time, I learned the language and tried to accept the truths. And I listened as the voices brought both of us comfort. Peace. Over and over the voices would say, "Molly, there is a tube in your throat that is helping you breathe. You are okay. We love you." These ever-patient explanations became your lullaby, especially when uttered by your favorites.
Love in the PICU looks different from love in any other place I have been. Yet also the same. It is born out of connection and purpose, of a desire to see and learn about each other. And despite seemingly insurmountable barriers like heavy sedation and intubation, you and your nurses got to know each other. They learned that you were feisty, loyal, and loving. You would protest your nurses' departure from your room by biting your tube and setting off the alarms, finding calm only when they would return and hold your hand. And you in turn learned of their love. Their dedication. Their care.
When things got bad, the love in the room only grew. Instead of pulling away, protecting themselves from the emotion that comes with losing a patient, your nursing team doubled down. Literally. You went onto dialysis and a machine to do the work of your failing lungs and heart, and you required 2:1 care. Still, your nurses showed up. And they loved you even more. We joked that this was your preferred ratio-two nurses to one Molly!
And when we heard the words that shattered our hearts-that said there was nothing left to do-that love from the nurses seemed to double again and then to spread. It came with us into the conference room where we told your sister that you were dying. That love stayed hours past the end of the shift to make sure your sister knew how important she was and how many people loved her as well as you. That love was in the hallway outside of your room, where I collapsed and sobbed after helping the two of you say goodbye. Love sat next to me and held me until I could breathe again.
An outpouring of love witnessed your final moments. In those last minutes you were surrounded by so much love. Love from your dad and me to the amazing girl who made us parents. Love from the respiratory therapist who made your last breaths so smooth and from the pain, palliative care, and PICU physicians who ensured you were free from pain. Love from your nurses who had become family. Surrounded by love, our voices singing "You Are My Sunshine," you peacefully passed away.
The love in the PICU did not stop when you died. Or after I let you out of my arms and kissed you for the last time. It was with your nurses, who came up from the oncology unit to help wash your body and stay with you. That love packed up your room and walked with us as we left the hospital without you. The love from the PICU came to your funeral and the rainbow unicorn-themed reception. It traveled back home with us through letters and pictures and memories.
When most people think of a PICU, they don't think of love. And while I had seen it as a clinician, I did not understand the depth of the love given, nor its power. But now I do. Because my Molly, you were so loved. And even though I wish it were a kind of love you never experienced, that those days were just a nightmare from which I could awaken, I have found peace in knowing how much love was given in that PICU. And I am so incredibly grateful for that gift.
Love forever,
Your mommy, Sarah