by Jill Kelly
I motioned to my mom and Ellen. “You go ahead and eat dinner, and I’ll do Hunter’s chest therapy.”
“Let me help you get him over to the bed first, Jill,” Ellen said. We wheeled Hunter into my parents’ room, and I picked him up and started walking toward their bed when Ellen stopped me. “Well, Hunter, it looks like Mommy gets to hold you for a few minutes because your bed’s not ready yet.”
I made my way over to the couch and sat down with Hunter. While I held him, I marveled at how he looked and sounded. Despite the fact that he hadn’t been acting like himself the past few days, he looked great. He didn’t sound congested at all, which was unusual but good. By the time we got him settled in bed for therapy, it was almost nine o’clock. My mom and Ellen went to eat dinner and I started Hunter’s bedtime routine.
“All that swimming in the pool made you so tired, Hunter,” I said with a smile. “You relax and Mommy will give you chest PT, okay, pumpkin boy? When you’re all done, Grammie’s going to sleep with you and Mommy’s going to go home tonight, okay?” He slowly blinked once to respond.
Depending on how Hunter was feeling and how his lungs sounded, his chest therapy usually took at least two hours. It was close to eleven by the time Hunter was done with everything.
The reason I remember the exact time everything happened is because we kept a daily schedule for Hunter, writing down everything he did and when he did it. I have a DayMinder for every year he was alive, 1997–2005. On August 4, 2005, this is what’s written:
6:30 a.m. Albuterol & vest treatment - temp. 102.5 - lying on right side
8:45 a.m. Calcium & magnesium - temp. 102.9 - lying on left side
9:00 a.m. Albuterol & vest treatment - temp. 103.2 - cold compresses
10:00 a.m. Multivitamin - heart rate 158-164 - oxygen saturation 97%
11:00 a.m. Jacuzzi with Grammie - temp. 102.7
12:15 p.m. Out of Jacuzzi - temp. 98.4
12:45 p.m. Albuterol & vest treatment
3:00 p.m. Hanging out in stroller - temp. 100.3
5:00 p.m. Albuterol & vest treatment - temp. 101.3
6:30 p.m. Swimming with Grammie - having fun and very calm
7:00 p.m. Mommie’s here! - out of pool - temp. 98.6
9:00 p.m. Albuterol & vest therapy - Carafate - Prilosec
10:00 p.m. Tummy & chest therapy
12:00 a.m. Tobi treatment - Cipro
2:00 a.m. Albuterol & vest therapy - temp. 103
3:00 a.m. Tummy
4:30 a.m. 911 call
By the time I was ready to head home, it was midnight and I was exhausted. Hunter was asleep on his belly, so I kissed his left cheek and whispered in his ear, “I love you, buddy, and I’ll see you soon. Grammie’s here with you now.”
“He’ll be fine, Jill. You better get home so you can get some rest before tomorrow. I’ll call you in the morning,” my mother reassured me.
Before leaving I hugged her and reminded her, “Make sure you call me in the morning. If he doesn’t seem right to you or if he has a hard time during the night, we’ll call Dr. Sharp again and see what he thinks. Okay?” Dr. Sharp was Hunter’s lung doctor.
I fought the urge to turn around and go back to my parents’ house the entire ride home. But I was so tired, and knew I needed to get some sleep, so I kept driving. I thought about how peaceful Hunter looked when I kissed him good-bye. He looked beautiful. And he was so tired he was snoring. I loved the sound of Hunter’s breathing, especially when he snored, because I knew he was sound asleep.
Jim still wasn’t home from the concert when I got back to our house. It was after one in the morning by the time I snuck in to kiss the girls good-night and sent Cassie home (another member of Team Hunter; she came to watch the girls after Kimmy left). I then washed up, went to bed in Camryn’s room, and instantly fell into an exhausted sleep.
At about 4:45 a.m. I was suddenly awakened when Jim burst into the room. “Jill, your dad just called and they’re rushing Hunter to the hospital.”
Jim was half-awake and flustered. Jolted by the suddenness of everything, I got out of bed.
“Here, call your dad.” Jim handed me the phone as I blew by him and ran down the stairs.
“Dad, what’s going on? What’s wrong with Hunter?” I pleaded as I held the phone with one hand and quickly changed clothes with the other.
“Jill, Hunter stopped breathing.”
“What do you mean, he stopped breathing?”
Before I got to my truck I realized I was talking on our house phone, so I immediately called my father back on my cell.
“Dad, where are they taking Hunter?”
“They’re taking him to Warsaw Hospital.”
“No, no, they can’t take him to Warsaw. They don’t know him there! Dad, he has to go to Children’s Hospital. They won’t know how to take care of him at Warsaw,” I urged.
“Jill, he might not even make it to Warsaw.”
“I’m on my way.”
I drove as fast as I could, but it still took me an hour to get to the hospital. I sobbed and pleaded with God the entire drive. “No, no, please God, no.”
When I arrived my dad was at the bottom of the entrance road, waving with both hands to direct me where to go. I pulled into the outpatient parking area and ran into the emergency room.
Immediately I saw my mother; her face was drenched in tears. Extreme dread overcame me and I thought, This is it. Hunter is going to die. She quickly directed me to the first room on the left, where at least six people dressed in hospital scrubs were trying to save my son. I maneuvered my way over to Hunter’s side and looked into his eyes.
He didn’t acknowledge me. He didn’t try to turn his head toward me. He didn’t blink. He just lay there staring at the ceiling. The only movement I noticed in the room came from the nurse positioned above my son who was administering CPR.
My voice cracked as I whispered in Hunter’s ear, “Hunter, Hunter, Mommy’s here now. You’re going to be just fine, little buddy. I’m here now. I love you, Hunter. Everything’s going to be okay.”
In that moment my entire essence became acutely aware that Hunter was already gone, but I prayed anyway. “God, please do something. Please. Help Hunter. Help him to breathe. Please, God. Please!”
I fell to my knees in desperation. The hospital gurney made a dull squeaking sound as the emergency room crew took turns giving Hunter CPR. Every time they stopped to see if his heart would beat again on its own, the line was flat. But they kept trying.
In Jim’s Own Words
I don’t remember if someone told me to go to Children’s Hospital instead of Warsaw Hospital, or if I just assumed it because Jill told her dad that Hunter should go to Children’s, but unfortunately that’s where I went.
The emergency room was busy when I got to Children’s, so I waited about fifteen minutes, which seemed like an hour. Finally I went up to the desk to find out what was going on. I asked the nurse if she knew when Hunter would be arriving. She just looked at me like she had no idea what I was talking about: “Mr. Kelly, let me check on that for you.” She got up and walked over to another nurse and then came back and said, “We have no information on Hunter right now, Mr. Kelly. Are you sure he’s coming here?”
At that point I started to get really upset. I explained to her that initially they were going to take Hunter to Warsaw Hospital but… As soon as I said, “Warsaw Hospital,” she interrupted, “Hold on a minute, Mr. Kelly. Let me see if I can find out what’s going on.”
She got up from her desk, out of my sight. Within seconds she came whipping around the corner and said, “Hunter’s at Warsaw Hospital. You need to go there right away.” I could tell something was wrong by the way she was acting.
As I ran out to my truck, I realized I had no idea where Warsaw Hospital was. I got directions from someone as fast as I could. I was so mad that I had wasted all that time at Children’s when Hunter was at Warsaw.
Once I got out of the city of Buffalo, I ended
up behind a car that was moving along pretty fast. But then a cop went by and I saw him turn around in my rearview mirror. I thought to myself, he better not pull me over—the guy in front of me is going faster than I am. When I heard the siren and saw the flashing lights, I automatically slowed down, still thinking the cop would pass me and pull the car in front of me over. But he didn’t. He pulled me over.
When he got up to the car, I was about to explain what was going on when he said, “Oh thank God it’s you, Mr. Kelly. We got a call about your son and I’ve been looking for your vehicle. Please follow me. I’m going to escort you to Warsaw Hospital.”
He ran back to his police car and I followed him to the hospital. At that point I was scared. However, I knew Hunter was tough, and he had always pulled through before. So I thought for sure he would pull through again.
I’d watched Hunter struggle so many times and battle back. He was resilient. I thought about the many times he had been in the ICU on a respirator with pneumonia and the times we were sure it was the end of the road. I just couldn’t let myself think he would die.
When I pulled into the emergency lot to park the car, a man stopped me. Before I could say anything he said, “We’ll park your car for you, Mr. Kelly.”
“That’s okay, I’ll park it,” I replied.
However, he insisted and said once again, “You just go on in, Mr. Kelly. We’ll take care of your car.”
I thought that was strange, but I realized why when I got inside the first set of doors to the emergency room.
Time seemed to stand still. My mother came over to where I was kneeling on the floor next to Hunter. “He needs to go to Children’s Hospital, Mom—right now,” I pleaded. “They know what to do to help him. He has to go there.”
I begged my mother to do something, anything, to make things better. “What about his lungs? Maybe he needs to be on a respirator.”
“Jill, he’s already on a respirator.” My mother gently tried to explain that the hospital crew was doing everything possible to save Hunter and that a team from Children’s was on their way.
The frenzied activity of the hospital staff continued. I could hear the sound of the machines surrounding my son. Tubes were coming from everywhere on his pale little body. Every effort was being made to save Hunter’s life.
Suddenly I felt very light-headed and queasy. I looked down at Hunter and then turned to my mom: “I don’t feel so good.” I was quickly whisked away into an adjacent room and laid down on a gurney. I thought I was going to pass out; I was sure I’d throw up.
My mother started to gently rub my back. Anxious to return to Hunter’s side, I sat back up. Just then a nurse walked in and handed my mother a can of orange juice and said, “She should drink this.” I quickly downed a few sips of orange juice and got up from the gurney.
As my mother and I rushed back to Hunter’s room, a doctor came up and said to me, “Mrs. Kelly, would you like to take a look at Hunter’s chest x-ray?” I followed him while my mom returned to Hunter.
He led me to where Hunter’s x-ray was displayed. Much to my shock, his lungs looked great. Better than ever. I had looked at every one of Hunter’s chest x-rays through the years, and inexplicably, this time he didn’t have pneumonia.
It wasn’t his lungs this time, so what was it?
Is it his heart?
There has to be something we can do, I thought to myself.
As my eyes filled with tears, I turned to the doctor. “Is there any other machine Hunter can go on?”
The doctor’s response is forever etched in my memory: he shook his head and said, “We love Hunter, too. We’ve done everything we possibly could, Mrs. Kelly.”
I’ll never forget that moment. Standing there in an unfamiliar hospital with a doctor I did not know, with complete strangers still struggling to draw any signs of life out of my only son, a sense of gratitude and peace quieted my soul. And for just a second, I was okay.
Because they loved Hunter, too.
I hurried back to Hunter’s side just as two nurses from Children’s Hospital arrived. They had flown by helicopter and had gotten there as fast as they could. (I would find out later that they knew before they came there was nothing more they could do for Hunter. But they came anyway.) I immediately recognized one of them and felt relieved and hopeful again. She came over to where I was sitting and kneeled down beside me. I looked at her and asked in desperation, “Is there anything more you can do?”
She shook her head and quietly said, “I’m so sorry, Jill. I’m so sorry.”
My mother came over, wrapped her arms around me—and we fell apart. Side by side we sat there next to our beloved little boy, just weeping, sharing our anguish, while the medical team continued to work on Hunter. After what seemed like hours, I looked up at the nurse closest to me and reluctantly said, “Please stop.”
And she did.
They all did.
And it was silent.
No one said a word. The room was quiet.
The realization of what had just happened shattered me in unimaginable and indescribable ways.
As I sat in the silence, with my head lying next to Hunter’s body, Jim burst through the door. He rushed to Hunter’s side and began to talk to him. “Hunter, Daddy is here now, little buddy. I’m here.” Jim’s eyes filled with tears as he took one deep breath and then another. I couldn’t bear to watch Jim touch our son’s lifeless body, so I left the room.
I don’t remember what happened after I left Jim alone with Hunter, but I do recall that I felt completely alone and hopeless. Hunter was gone. How I made it out of the emergency room that morning, I’ll never know.
As Jim and I drove home together, I became acutely aware that life all around me continued to go on. How is that possible? I thought. My son is dead. Life will never be the same without Hunter.
My mother sat in the backseat in silence. I had asked her to ride with us so that she could be there when we told the girls about their brother. When we were almost home, my mother broke the silence and said with tears, “Oh my goodness, today is Robert’s birthday.”
I turned around and just looked at her. I was speechless.
I can’t believe Hunter went to heaven on his best friend’s birthday.
I can’t believe this is happening.
I was in shock.
I couldn’t think.
I couldn’t talk.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to disappear.
Sorrow.
Grief.
August 6, 2005—My heart is shattered. How can I live without you, buddy? I long to be near you. Oh Lord, the pain is more than I can bear. Please take me, too.
Chapter 14
Memories Everywhere
August 9, 2005—I don’t know if there are any tears left to cry. It was beautiful today. Not a cloud in the sky. A perfect day to bury my son.
I hate this. I want to run, but there’s nowhere to hide. HELP!
It must have been horrible for Robert to walk in front of the casket that carried the lifeless body of his best friend. He’s too young for all this heartbreak and pain. I wanted to hug him and never let go. I’m going to miss Robert.
I don’t remember much of what Pastor Greg said at Hunter’s Celebration of Eternal Life service, but I do remember our nanny, Jill Kivett, singing “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” That had to be so hard. She used to sing that to Hunter all the time. I’m so thankful she could be here today.
It was hard to concentrate and take it all in when Camryn kept sobbing in my arms. She just kept crying and crying and there was nothing I could do to help her. So I just held her. I need You to hold me, Father. I can’t believe he’s gone. What am I going to do? Help me to remember everything about him. Help me to remember everything You taught us.
Hunter was an amazing little boy. I’m drowning in tears. But I know that You are close to the brokenhearted and save those who are crushed in spirit….
I was in shock. In a wh
irlwind of just a few days, I had said good-bye to my son. On a beautiful sunny summer day I sat in the front pew at our church—completely numb during his Celebration of Eternal Life service—placed a white rose and small marble cross on my son’s casket… and then everything was over.
It was all over.
Everyone went home. Food started to spoil in our refrigerator. The girls wanted to go to the movies. And Jim went out of town for an appearance. But my heart was shattered and lifeless.
Memories of Hunter’s life were everywhere. His medications were in the refrigerator and all over the kitchen counter to the right of the sink. His suction machines, towels, dirty sheets, and pillowcases were still in the laundry room. His books, his toys, his movies and artwork were scattered around the playroom…. He was everywhere. He had gotten a hundred on his last book report and math test, and both were still proudly displayed on our kitchen cupboard. His clothes were in my closet and neatly folded in my drawers because we shared a room.
My bedroom had become Hunter’s bedroom. Because of the advanced care he needed throughout the night, we ended up sleeping in the same bed. He was always on my left.
When I woke up the morning after Hunter died, the first thought that ran through my mind was, He’s not here. He’ll never snuggle with me again.
What was I supposed to do with all of Hunter’s clothes? Box everything up and put them in storage? Should I give some of them to my nephews Ben and Zac? Zac was only eleven days older than Hunter, so Hunter’s clothes would probably have fit him. But that would be so hard. His shirts especially held precious memories. As I mentioned in the journals, the last year of Hunter’s life he lost his involuntary blink, so we had to put special gel in his eyes every hour to keep his eyes moist. Inevitably the gel would get all over Hunter’s shirts, and it wouldn’t come out in the wash. I just couldn’t imagine giving his little gel-stained shirts away.
What about all his Rescue Heroes? He had every one of the action figures and all the vehicles and accessories that went along with them.