It was a cold winter day in December, just a few days before sweet Carter passed away. Poor baby was having seizures then. The doctors were planning to get an MRI of his brain, to see if the damage was local or global.

I remember how we prayed, cried, and pleaded with God for some good news. The anticipation and anxiety leading up to the MRI seemed to take years off my life. 

After much waiting, the dreaded moment we were waiting for had arrived. To prepare Carter for his trip to the medical imaging room, the nurses went to switch Carter onto the transport ventilator. 

Then came the sound of those monitor alarms with their ding ding ding. This sound was usually nothing to be concerned about. This is because many NICU babies are fondly referred to as “ding-ers”. So this was a sound that was all too familiar. Usually, the sounds were almost always a false alarm. Very rarely, were there even false alarms for my Cater -- a strong, full-term baby boy.

Let's flashback to November: In the early days of our first hospital stay, I knew nothing about the strange world of the NICU. The first time I heard those alarms, Carter had kicked off one of his leads. Panicked, I looked around for a nurse. I was so confused as to why no one was running in to help. I practically shouted, “Low heart rate? Low heart rate!” The nurse, in response to my unnecessary pleas, strolled over and casually reassured me, “Don’t worry, he just kicked off his leads. We’re always listening. You’ll know when it’s the real thing, we will all jump out of our chairs and come running.”

Fast forward back to that cold winter day in December: There we were, mother and son. Alarms singing their familiar dinging sound. Only this time, the ding ding ding of the alarms was not followed by a nurse's sweet words of, "Do not worry."

This was the real thing.

Suddenly, the world stood still. Carter de-sated all the way to 30. If you don’t speak NICU lingo, that’s bad. It means his oxygen saturation was critically low. 

A nurse hit the crash button as another one called, “Get the doctor!” Dozens of people rushed in and ran to my baby. A new alarm sounded, one that was unfamiliar. Blue lights flashed like glimpses of lightning, strong and menacing with the force of thunder.

I cried like a wounded animal. I screamed, “No Carter! No, Carter! No!”, as I fell to the floor, melting into a puddle. There I was, in the corner of the room as the code alarm sounded. 

I heard this sound once before -- not for my baby, but for some baby in what seemed then to be a distant and far off land. Carter was healthy back then and I didn’t know much about codes then either. But I prayed for that baby as I heard the alarms in the distance; I prayed mom and baby would both be okay. 

Now, here I was on that cold December day: I was that mom I had prayed for; my son was that baby. The code was ours. The blue lights continued to flash violently, as the sound of the alarm drowned out my desperate tears. My heart wanted to be near Carter in that moment, but my head knew that I could not help him in the way he needed. So I made myself as small as possible in the corner of the room. I sank to the floor with my head between my knees, crying sounds of pure desperation.

To everyone’s relief, Carter's oxygen saturation came back up. I could finally breathe again.

Carter’s doctor came rushing to my side, along with a nurse or two. Now it was time to tend to my wounds. 

"That was scary."

Jason reentered the scene, a perfect time he had chosen to use the restroom. 

Everyone explained what had happened and many words of comfort were said. 

But no one could tell me the only thing I wanted to hear, “Don’t worry. He’s going to make it out of here.” They couldn’t tell me because it wasn’t true.

After that moment, the goal for Carter was to stabilize him for long enough so that he could handle being transferred to the transport ventilator for a trip to the MRI. Until then, it would be too risky to try and move him again.

Days passed, which felt like years. But Carter never got better, and we faced our worst fears.

I awoke, on that fatal morning of December 30th. They had made me a cot in Carter's room because I could not stand to be far from him in those final hours. I had fallen asleep with my labor & delivery playlist on shuffle, a collection of favorite worship songs and hymns. The song that played when I awoke that morning, MercyMe's Even If:

I know You're able and I know You can 
Save through the fire with Your mighty hand
But even if You don't
My hope is you alone

They say it only takes a little faith
To move a mountain
Well good thing
A little faith is all I have, right now
But God, when You choose
To leave mountains unmovable
Oh give me the strength to be able to sing
It is well with my soul

I know You're able and I know You can
Save through the fire with Your mighty hand
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone
I know the sorrow, and I know the hurt
Would all go away if You'd just say the word
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone

My battle cry for Carter during his first NICU Journey had been Elevation Worship's Do It Again:
"I've seen you move / You move the mountains / And I believe / I'll see you do it again / You made a way / When there was no way / And I believe I'll see you do it again." 

Somehow, I knew waking up to the words of "Even If": This mountain, unlike the others before it, would not be moved. Sometimes, God chooses to leave mountains unmovable. The last mountain for Carter to face, was death.

A nurse knelt beside my cot and asked if she could pray with me. Through my tears I whispered softly,

"Please."

"Lord give these parents the strength to face what is coming. Give them wisdom. Have mercy on Carter."

I knew in that moment, we were never going to make it to the MRI.

A familiar voice, with tears in his eyes and compassion in his soul calmly whispered, 
"Haley, we have kidney failure, we have intestinal failure, we have respiratory failure, we're having seizures... Carter's trying to tell us he's tired."

Conversations turned from making plans for the coming years, to making plans for the coming hours.

“Is there anyone you would like to come and visit?”

“Would you like to baptize him?”

“Would you like the chaplain to come?”

“Would you like a photographer to come?”

“Would you like us to get molds of his footprints?”

Things you never want to think about, unfolding before you like the ending of a really sad book. You cannot change what The Author has written. No matter how many times you throw the book at the wall, the ending remains the same. 

“How do you want him to go in the end? With us doing compressions on his chest, breaking his ribs? With dozens of people in the room? The sound of the crashing alarm, and the blinking blue light? Or do you want to swaddle him, hold him, and say your goodbyes?”

This is a decision no parent should ever have to make. 

I thought back to the day or so before, where we had experienced that dreadful "code blue". I thought back to the sound of the crash alarm, the flashes of blue, and the dozens of nurses. I surveyed my surroundings, where everyone was saying, “There’s nothing more we can do”

There was no longer an “if”; there was only “how”. 

So, we held our baby. We held him tight, we said our goodbyes, and we sang sweet lullabies. I hope Carter found comfort to have us with him as he left this world behind. 

The snow fell that day. It was strangely solemn and somehow beautiful. 

I’ll never forget the little white box they carried into the room or the way they wrapped my son in white linen, to prepare him for his tomb. 

Even in this moment, I prayed to the LORD for a miracle, “A bodily resurrection LORD, that will really show them all. Please LORD.”

Please.

The resurrection never came. It is yet to come, but not on my timeline. 

I was Abraham on the mountain, but there was no lamb.

I waited for the lamb, and it never came.

Because Jesus was the lamb.

Yes, Jesus Christ was the lamb who already came. He died for Carter, so that Carter could live, not chained to his earthly prison, but to live in the fullness of God’s presence.

This world is broken. If you don’t believe that yet, you are in denial. I pray that before it's too late for you, that you may come to know the LORD and believe His word is true. None of us are promised tomorrow. This life is but a vapor, then it is gone. Pray and seek the LORD, and you will find rest that surpasses all earthly wisdom. The LORD gives strength to the weak. The LORD gives sight to the blind. He is the risen one; He is divine. 

Lord we cry out to you for a speedy return; the children are suffering LORD. Hear the cries of the innocents. We beg you to return and make all things new. If not for us, for the children. They need their heavenly Father. 

We need our heavenly Father.

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