I rode with Cami in the ambulance. They were doing CPR, she had a heartbeat so I thought she would be okay. I had to prepare myself for the possibility that she might not live, but it also felt impossible that she could die. I'm not sure if anyone can relate to that, but it's how I remember feeling.
I couldn't ride with her in the back. I felt helpless and wanted to be close to her, to hold her hand. I told the ambulance driver that I couldn't see her. He turned his head to look right at me and he said,"You can talk to her." I said that I didn't know what to say. He said, "You can tell her not to go." So I called back to her to stay here. I told her I loved her and that I didn't care what she had done that I just wanted her to be here with us. I told her I would forgive her no matter what. Over and over I told her not to go. I think she could hear me. I hoped that she could.
When we got to the hospital, a social worker met me at the ambulance. Brad and the girls weren't there yet. The hospital staff took Cami into a different room. I was in an adjoining room, or behind a curtain or something. I was filling out the intake form, answering questions. Did I know what she had taken? Did she have a history or drug use? I could only catch a glimpse of her. The staff hurried around her. They wanted and needed answers so they could be most helpful. The hospital chaplain showed up. His prayer was appreciated and comforting, but he was awkward and young.
Finally, we were brought into a room with her. Brad and Peyton and Reese were there. Bailey, Cami's oldest sister, wasn't home. She was in Idaho, volunteering for six months. Her sisters connected her to us with Facetime. My sisters and their husbands and my niece were there, along with Camryn's friend and her mom, who had helped move Cami to the floor and started CPR when we first found her. Some dear friends from our church came too, and they stayed in the waiting room.
God was there too, and we were surrounded with his never ending love. But, I guess he didn't want what we all wanted and I had to make the decision to let her go. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, but it was what happened.
There was no hysteria. There was pain and heartache. There was also strangely a sense of peace, but also disbelief. I didn't understand why God in his omniscience didn't just save her. He could have. There was a thunderstorm and there was a beautiful pink sky. We had to say goodbye.
We were surrounding her bedside, holding her hands, stroking her hair. I whispered in her ear one more time our song, "I have a little baby, her name is Cammer Doodle, and everytime I see her, I kiss her on the noodle. Cammer Cammer Doodle, I kiss her on the Noodle."
We walked out in the dark to our van in the parking garage and we drove home. Now we were a family of five. I never wanted a family with an odd number of people. Who would have to ride alone at an amusement park? I always wanted four kids so we would be an even number.
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