It’s been a long hard ten days since Aidan first fell ill.  And the worst of it is: the doctors do not expect him to live.

    We were in the pediatric intensive care unit for a little over a week.  The terrible fever subsided, but he had succumb to septic shock.  His blood vessels dilated, causing widespread internal bleeding and fluid imbalance and kidney failure.  He had unusual seizures.  There was worry that his heart had been harmed; his blood pressure had collapsed.  By last Sunday, they no longer believed they could save him. 

    That was Sunday.  Today is six days later.   We are all home.  The local hospice service has set us up to make things as comfortable as possible for Aidan.  He has shown incredible strength, living past the first expectations of his demise.  But his body has turned against him and he is gradually slipping away from us.  Home is better than the hospital.  We are all here together, his parents, his sister, his grandparents, his aunts, his friends, his dogs and cat.  We are one in our work right now, which is his comfort.  And we will provide that and make the last days of his life as loving and close and warm as possible.

    Needless to say, I find a million thoughts running through my head.  Never have I felt a pain so deep, a hurt so overwhelming.  That is how it should be, I suppose, when a child dies.  But that is not the only thing in my mind.  I think about his life, how good it has been, how full and happy, in spite of the limitations.  I will reflect upon his life here in the coming days and weeks.  For now, one thought stands out: his life was good because he was enmeshed in a web of loving relationships, radiating out from Maureen and me and Maggie, to include his family and friends and acquaintances.   In the past few days, I have come to realize the full geographic extent of his social self, reaching to Japan and Boston, to New York and California.  He has been loved by many and loved many in return, and that has to be the definition of a good life.