It lives in my head, the most haunting of images. And while most would assume it would be that of my lifeless baby, it actually isn’t.
It is the image of my husband sitting, with his head in his hands, at the end of a long hospital corridor. I saw that, and knew it was over.
Because had there been any glimmer of hope, he would have been in the room with Oliver, while they were trying to revive him. But they had been shocking his heart for 30 minutes with nothing to show but faces of solemnity. Someone had suggested my husband wait outside the triage room, in the hallway.
And when I came rushing in to the hospital, a (very slow) nurse accompanied me to the triage room. But I left her behind as I ran up to my husband. And he looked up at me with broken, sad eyes. And his eyes confirmed what I had assumed by seeing him sitting, with his head in his hands, at the end of a long hospital corridor.