Part One:
I didn’t hear any wheezing or see breathing struggles. But I did see a strangely pale face and expressionless eyes. Like someone had flipped a switch to drain the color and energy from her vivacious self. I knew something was wrong. But when I left for the ER, I still expected to return in a few hours.
I cried when the treatments weren’t working. They called for an ambulance transport, while a sympathetic doctor tucked a sports drink and graham crackers into my bag and urged me to try to eat something.
I sat in the back holding her tiny hand and watched as rain in the distance disappeared. We traveled down a road I drive daily and yet all of the familiar suddenly looked alien. Like a separate reality. It was a world of normalcy I could no longer touch. We passed the street leading home and I felt my heart break. “I would give anything to be going there. Anything for a mundane day.”
We were ushered to a room as I heard a familiar lullaby. The same one had danced through the halls when she was born.
She was held down for a cannula that she fought hard not to wear. The fear made her eyes open wide and wild. She was assessed and given medicine. There was still hope this would all begin to turn around.
But then the nightmare spiral began. I heard “critically ill”, “respiratory failure”, and “her little body is working too hard to breathe” while the floor seemed to fall out beneath me. I couldn’t hold back fear-filled tears.
My husband had swung by home, still only expecting to need little more than a phone charger for a brief stay. “You need to get here now. They’re arranging transport. She’s being transferred to the PICU at All Children’s.”
By the time he arrived, she had been scheduled for an airlift. I heard the helicopter arrive. “She will be in good hands there. They have the best equipment for what she needs.”
An RT wearing a flight suit walked in the room and I fell apart. He reminded me of my uncle. The one that at only 29 years old had died when the helicopter sent to save lives crashed. He once was that young tall guy in a flight suit greeting the frightened loved ones.
And now here we were. The frightened loved ones. The tear soaked faces watching our baby get strapped to a gurney. The day before had been like any other.
Only one of us could ride along. My husband gave me an understanding nod. “I’ll go”, he said. I waved goodbye and raced down to get our car. They had a 13 minute flight ahead of them. I had a 45 minute drive. I’m sure I made it in less time, but it felt like much more. I pulled up to the hospital and barely stopped running to grab my valet ticket.
When I got to her room, she was colorless and calm. She was still except for the rapid, fierce pumping of her chest and abdomen as her body fought hard to get air. For a little while I felt some relief that she was in the best place she could be to receive help. She was briefly stable. But that didn’t last.
She took a turn and suddenly a group entered the room. One doctor yelled for epinephrine. Respiratory therapists debated what mask and machine to pair with her tiny face. Nurses connected tubes and wires. A few residents huddled together taking notes. I cried over my baby and begged God for a miracle.
They were worried she may have a partial lung collapse. They stuck her leg with the epinephrine and she screamed as loud as she could. One doctor listened to her chest again and voiced some relief. “That has helped a bit. And I can hear that lung now. No collapse.”
They couldn’t find a mask to fit her face. The machine she was connected to wasn’t helping. “I do NOT want her intubated. And I will do everything in my power to keep that from happening.”, a respiratory therapist said to me.
It was 3:44am when we finally saw some hope. Her breathing had stabilized somewhat. And there was a glimmer of personality as even in her sleep-state she crossed her little legs and put both her hands on her knees. Our little lady was coming back to us.
Hours bled together. For three nights in a row I stayed awake until the rising sun reminded me I hadn’t slept. I would close my eyes then; until 8am when the next shift would walk in the room.
By the grace of God and the hardworking hands of wise helpers he mercifully put in our lives, our girl began to heal. On the fourth day of our nightmare, we were moved to another floor of the hospital. I heard her laugh. It was the sweetest sound. One my ears longed for when she was fighting hard for air.
Part Two:
The first morning after our return, children were fed and held close. We listened more closely. We spoke careful words of love. We noticed every sweet detail of their happy existence.
Then birdseed was replenished.
And tomato plants were watered.
It didn’t so much matter if the floors were cleared and mopped. It’s not that it didn’t matter at all. It just isn’t what mattered first.
What matters most are the living things.
I saw a neighbor at the end of the street. Behind my smile and wave was “We were in the ICU and I thought my daughter was going to die.”
I watch her play and wonder how many of the people I see every day want to scream their trials and pain and trauma. How many of us wish we could wear a sign saying, “We’ve been through hell. Be gentle.”
What matters most are the living things.
I am well acquainted with gratitude. But there is a new gratitude. One you meet on the other side of your greatest fear. One only forged when you’re shaking and pleading for mercy with every breath.
And from that gratitude springs a new patience. One that doesn’t rush the steps of a walk. One that knows tiny hands and feet covered in dirt are better than planting flowers alone. One that drops the task to pick up the toy. One that hangs on every tiny word spoken because it has glimpsed the ache of silence.
What matters most are the living things.
Don’t forget. While you tend your homes and complete your work and earn your money. It is the living things that you will first long for and tend to after your greatest battles.
What matters most are the living things.
Note to parents: If you ever notice something that is “off” with your child. Even if the typical markers of trouble are missing, seek help right away. Our daughter did not have the usual, more obvious signs of an asthma attack. Only hours later, when we had already been at the ER receiving treatment was there wheezing, labored breathing, etc. At home she just suddenly looked pale. Her eyes seemed “out of it”. I took her in immediately. And after four breathing treatments, steroids and oxygen she was not improving. She was deemed critically ill around six hours after initial treatment. It’s terrifying to think of how it could have been even worse had we waited or doubted our instinct.
Emmy Goulet 