This is the chapter I wish I never had to write.  That this story was called Zaan’s Heart and that his operation was the worst thing that we had to go through.  Unfortunately that happy ending couldn’t be.

Zaan’s death

Tuesday night just before 11 o’clock my cellphone rang.  I was almost asleep and hubby got up to answer the phone that was lying on the dressing table.  I heard him ask the doctor if she was joking. The next thing he said was that we were on our way.

Zaan was dead. His heart had just stopped beating.  We phoned my in laws and asked them to please come watch the kids.  They were already asleep in our bed.  We had to go to the hospital knowing that it was too late.

That forty five minute trip took forever.  On the way I phoned my dad and asked him to please let the rest of the family know what had happened.  I struggled to tell him that Zaan had died.  It felt that if I had to tell someone that Zaan was dead it would make it real.  I just couldn’t believe it.  But there we were driving through the city centre in the middle of the night.

When we got to the hospital my uncle and aunt were waiting for us in the foyer.  My mother in law had phoned them to please be there with us.

The doctor was waiting for us in the PICU.  She told us that Zaan was happy and chatting to them before the alarms suddenly started screaming. It was over so quickly that they couldn’t even phone us before he died.

He was lying in the isolation room wrapped in blankets.  All the probes and wires had been removed.  He was so still.  It was eary to see the little body.  Because it wasn’t Zaan anymore.  It was only a shell that was left behind.  That was the last time I could hold my baby.  I took the car seat and the other personal things of Zaan that was left in the room home with us.

That next morning very early I had to phone the company that were going to deliver the oxygen to the hospital to cancel the order.  At first the lady who answered sounded a bit peeved off because we were cancelling on the very last minute.  She wanted to know why we were cancelling.  She was the first person that I officially had to tell my son was dead.  She sounded so shocked.

We had to go back to the hospital to pick up the death certificate.  From there we drove to the funeral home.  We were told to sit down and then we had to tell them why we were there.  There’s just no easy way of telling someone, I’m here so you can bury my baby.  I’ve got to say, those people have the toughest job imaginable.  They’ve got to deal with the grief of the person coming to them and have to explain the process, then deal with that embarrassing thing called payment for services rendered.

There’s just no nice way of telling someone this is how much it’s going to cost you to bury the baby you just lost last night.  The lady that spoke to us really did a fantastic job.  Enough kindness to not let us feel like we’re in the butchery and enough professionalism to make the whole process as painless as possible.

I never knew there were so many details to a death.  We picked out a nice white coffin for Zaan.  We handed them the packet of forms we got from the hospital.  Our choice of flowers, where and who would do the memorial service.  Do we have a plot in a cemetery or did we prefer cremation.  And every decision had a price tag.

The thought of Zaan buried in the ground, with a grave that I had to visit scared me to death.  We pick cremation. We kept his ashes and they’re in our home in the little wooden box that we got from the funeral home.  I don’t have to drive to a place with a headstone and sit there to be close to my baby.  Maybe I should explain that I don’t believe Zaan is still part of his remains.  That is just what it is: Remains.  It’s what he has left behind.  I don’t believe in ghosts or spirits haunting a place.

During Zaan’s operation and his last stay in hospital our community gave us a lot of support.  When the minister asked us who we would like to supply the food and drinks after the memorial service. I decided to let them have the honour of preparing Zaan’s going away feast.  There was so much that only a quarter of what was supplied was eaten.  The rest was sent home with us and we donated a lot of it to the old age home in our area.

Those first few days we lived in a daze.  There were no emotional storms, no crying bouts.  Just numbed shock.  My husband and I just pulled in and tried to understand what had happened.

We took Rivan’s christening clothes for Zaan to the funeral home.  The funeral was the next Tuesday.  Zaan was in his coffin at the funeral home for a viewing before his memorial service.  We had decided not to have an open coffin at the church.  I can’t tell you what I was wearing.  I just don’t remember.  We got to the funeral home and went into the viewing room.

That small little coffin was put on something that placed him about a meter of the ground.  I reached down and touched his head.  He was so cold.  The bruises were still so clearly visible on his head where the doctors had tried to put a drip two weeks before.  He looked so solemn in the little suite.  I couldn’t stay, I had to leave.

At the church we sat in the front row.  With the minister speaking to us directly.  I didn’t want to be there.  I didn’t want that to be us.  I’ve never been one to cry in public and walking behind his coffin out of the church was agony.  I didn’t want anyone to see my pain.

Chapter 13 coming soon…