The nannies rushed him upstairs at 10pm on Tuesday night because he had stopped breathing. I ran into Dorothy's room where she had started CPR. She looked up at me and I knew we were both thinking the same thing: is it worth it? Mackenson was over 2 years old but weighed less than 15 pounds. Life for him was essentially a battle to breathe, and with his lack of brain development, it was hard to know if he could even feel comfort and love. During the year that we cared for him, Dorothy only saw him smile once. Perhaps we could heroically save his life, but it seemed more merciful not to.
After about 2 minutes without breathing, Mackenson spontaneously started breathing again. For the next 2 hours, Dorothy and I sat with him, watching as he fought desperately for his life. His breath came in tiny shallow respirations, and every 20 or 30 seconds, he would give a big shuddering gasp and then lie still. We would think that he was gone and then suddenly, the little chest would rise again and the cycle would repeat. It was horrible to watch him suffer like that. We gradually took him off oxygen and I gave him several shots of valium - anything to end the torture. Eventually, I just took his miniature hand, already turning cold, and pleaded with God to take him home.
Mackenson finally stopped fighting at 12:15am. I had cried earlier that night and I cried again several times over the next few days, but I didn't cry at that moment. I could see him sitting in Jesus' lap, looking far happier and healthier than he had been on earth. It was Mackenson's time and for his sake, we were glad to let him go.
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