Aidan Andrew Torres

Aidan was born on October 4, 2007, as beautiful as a sunset and sunrise, perfect in every way.💙💛

When I was pregnant, they found that Aidan had a serious heart defect. Of course, I was very scared, and so was my family. He also had Down syndrome. Some of the doctors wanted me to have an abortion at six months. Can you believe that? My baby was already kicking in my womb! I would never have done that at any month.

They told me my boy would be nothing but a piece of meat—sick, hopeless, and that he would cost so much money. I can admit I was scared. I didn't know anyone with Down syndrome, and I didn't know what to expect. I opted not to have an amniocentesis because it was too risky. We were going to love Aidan no matter what. He was my baby, and that's that.

So Aidan was born on October 4, 2007, as beautiful as a sunset and sunrise, perfect in every way. He was healthy. Even though he stayed in the ICU for observation, he proved them all wrong right from the start. No medications, no IV, no oxygen—nothing!

Can you believe the doctor had the nerve to say, "He wouldn't play football"? Who was he to say that, and how could he predict such a thing about a one-day-old healthy, happy, bouncing baby boy? Maybe he was a fortune teller as his other job, but, Mister Doctor, you were so wrong—so wrong!

I'm almost positive—no, I'm positive—that those foolish doctors had never even met a child with Down syndrome. You can't learn everything from books!

He came home and was a chubby little papa's boy—happy, healthy, and handsome.

At five months, he had his first open-heart surgery. Did I mention they said he would never gain weight because of his heart? Let me tell you, he was a butterball, as chubby as could be!

He had heart surgery on March 25, 2008, and went home five days later. But once he got home, he wasn't himself. He cried nonstop. We went for a checkup at Children's Hospital Los Angeles, and he was suffering from congestive heart failure. He was put on a breathing machine and a feeding tube, but through all of that he still played, smiled, and stayed a tough little man.

He had his second open-heart surgery on April 11th. They couldn't fix the heart defect, so they put in an artificial valve. He was never able to get off the breathing machine. His lungs were so damaged from the heart defect and from being on the ventilator for so long.

I never left his side. I didn't see your sister during all those months because I couldn't leave my baby. I watched him get sicker the longer he stayed there, which is common. The longer you're on a ventilator, the more damage it does to your lungs, and the more infections you get from having plastic tubing to breathe and eat through.

IV after IV became infected. The doctors would call and ask, "We need to give him an IV in his neck... on his head. We need your permission." They called him Trisomy 21, I guess that's what some doctors thought his name was. But I said, "This is Aidan. I don't know where that boy named Trisomy 21 is."

He had every infection you could get. You name it, he got it. Sometimes I think all the doctors did was guess what was wrong.

Don't get me wrong—I had so many nurses that I loved, and I love them to this day. They cared for my Aidan. They cried for my Aidan. They knew he wasn't going to make it, and it was like losing their own child.

I can't tell you how heartbreaking it is when you know your boy isn't going to pull through, and all the nurses—and even some of the doctors who see everything—broke down in tears. It was so touching, and at the same time I felt so guilty that they were hurting like I was.

That only gives you a small glimpse of how special my Aidan was. He tried so hard to fight. Even when Mommy couldn't hold him, he stayed strong. I only got to hold him a few times because he was connected to so many machines. I always felt guilty because he could cry, but you couldn't hear him.

I always wondered how scared he was, and if he wondered, "Why am I here? Why am I hurting? I'm only a baby."

I only got to hold Aidan free from all the machines after he flew up to Heaven. Then I was finally able to caress him, hold him like I had craved to all those days and nights when I felt his pain and wanted to take it away, pick him up, and love him.

I knew he was getting tired, but we never thought about death. We were scared he wouldn't make it, but he always pulled through, and we thought he was stable.

We went to sleep at the Ronald McDonald House. I had barely fallen asleep when my phone rang. I jumped up and answered it. They said they were losing him and to get there right away.

I started screaming and crying, "No! No! No!" We ran there, and when we got there they were doing everything they could. It was touch and go, but he wasn't getting any better—only worse. They were doing such harsh things that no mother should ever have to witness happening to her child.

I could see it in his face that his soul was no longer in his body, even though his body continued trying to be strong. He lasted in a drug-induced coma for maybe three and a half days. I think—it's all so foggy because I was losing it.

We had his sisters come and say goodbye. We baptized him there. They made pillows with his footprints.

I didn't want his sisters there when he passed, but now I regret it. I chose to let him die on his own. I didn't let them remove the breathing tube because that just sounded so barbaric. I wanted him to leave this world on his own terms, when he felt we would be strong enough.

He died in front of me. I told him I knew he was tired and that it was okay to fly.

He died on June 6, 2008, at 6:56 a.m., the day part of my heart died. He died from complications due to heart surgery and organ failure.

So there's part of his story.

If only you had met him.