I have no memory of putting the pen to paper, but I know we signed. I don’t recall making my careless, cloud-like signature. Which one of us signed first? I may have pushed the Do Not Resuscitate papers toward Mike. It was what we both wanted for Noah. No, wanted isn’t the right word: we didn’t want Noah to die. We wanted him to live. We wanted him to come home from the hospital, recover from his lung infection and for our lives to return to what they were before he got sick. But, what we wanted and the certainty of his prognosis weren’t the same thing. The signing of the orders had to be done, so nothing would be done.
This is where the nurses meet, I thought, as we were led into a plain room. One wall was covered by an over-sized bulletin board tacked with personal notes, wage and hour regulations and a potluck party announcement. Mike and I sat on one side of a long laminated table, the pediatric intensivist, chaplain and a social worker on the other side. Between us were a dull, faded flower arrangement and a few Martha Stewart magazines with the addresses cut off. We had talked through dozens of different scenarios before this meeting, weighing our options and questioning our decisions. What seemed like the right direction one hour would be wrong the next. Separate members of Noah’s clinical team had talked with us about the orders during his hospitalization. Signing would make it official.