I feel so silly today, like a little kid who threw a tantrum because she didn't get her own way, when really her papa was planning on giving her a second scoop of ice cream all along.
I got the call late last night, while I was lying awake in bed and worrying about Maurius. Just so you're aware, he's had another episode, and they're taking him back to the OR to put in a trach. For Maurius, an episode is nothing to be scoffed at, nothing like on TV, where everything is neatly packaged by the end of the show. In this case, nothing has been that simple. He'd somehow managed to block off his breathing tube for the second time in less than eight hours, and the doctors were simply unable to get another tube in its place. There were no other options.
Sleep was a long time coming last night as I sat on my couch and prayed even as I raged at God, unable even in my anger to stop asking Him for hope. Why can O'Brien have a miracle while Maurius suffers through yet another traumatic procedure? Why one and not the other? And yet I couldn't stop myself asking Him for wisdom, for skill, for sure-handed surgeons. Questioning His will and asking Him to provide all in one long, jumbled-up prayer that I'm sure the Spirit had to interpret for me because I know I wasn't making any sense.
So many of you have written and reminded me that it's okay to question, that it's okay to be angry, and I'm so grateful for that reassurance. Your words mixed with His in the dark of the night, and I found that I was able to trust even through my hurt. Remembering that the promised light is only for the next step. That even though right now all I can see is the snake across my path, the step after that, when the Light moves forward with me, might be something so incredible that I'll wonder why I was ever scared to begin with.
And so of course, with the morning came the light. Mercy new with the dawn, and Maurius is surprising us all. I sat with him while his nurse took her lunch break and the ventilator continued its relentless pulse. His bottom lip stuck out in a constant pout, and he kept trying to pull on the tubing connected to his new trach. The solution was obvious, although I'm not sure who ended up benefiting more from it when I stuck my finger in his chubby little hand and he held on with all his strength. His forehead smoothed out and his heart rate inched down a couple points and I sat there, the pain in my heart easing just a tiny bit, hardly daring to breathe while I watched him do so effortlessly. Such a change from yesterday, and his soft fingers clenched around mine let me hope in a way I hadn't dared before.
It appears Maurius has decided to stay with us, because when I checked on him again before leaving for the day, the ventilator sat in the corner, unplugged and silent. Maurius was wide awake, glaring at us with his furrowed brow, needing just a little oxygen blowing into his trach to help him breathe. He's apparently not a huge fan of all the fuss, and would most likely prefer to be in his mama's arms, chugging a bottle.
All that will come with time. Maurius is at the start of a long road, but the Light that's shown us the path this far will lead us home, I'm sure. And somewhere, in the background, I can almost hear God laughing at me. Not mocking or derisive, that laughter; just the amused chuckle of One who could see from the beginning that there was really nothing for me to get mad about in the first place. The One who knew I was going to get that second scoop of ice cream, and forty seven more, if only my bowl were big enough to hold it all at once.
I'd like a bigger bowl, please.
Wednesday, April 7. 2010
sparrow baby
Yesterday, when I was writing to you about my adventures in Ghana, all I was thinking about was the little baby down in the ICU.
My office day had suddenly turned clinical when Jenn paged me. Can you help us with the baby, she asked, breathless, and then hung up. There was no question which baby she meant; Obre (or O'Brian; we're not entirely sure which name is his, since his mama uses them interchangeably) is the continuation of last week's sadness. At four months, Obre tips the scales at a hair over six and a half pounds, small even for a newborn. He has a bilateral cleft lip and palate, and was very, very sick.
Three seconds later, when I was at his bedside in B Ward, Jenn met my eyes and my heart sank as I realized that we were losing, that it all felt far too much like Baby Greg. We knelt together with Obre's nurse, holding the mask to his face as he struggled to breathe, and we knew that it wasn't looking good.
This time, though, we had something we didn't have back when Baby Greg was with us; a ventilator that can give support through a mask, the less invasive step before a breathing tube. With this huge tool in our arsenal, the decision was quickly made to transfer Obre to the ICU and let the ventilator help him breathe.
It took a long time to get him settled, and all the while I felt a sickening sense of déjà vu, watching his pitiful struggles mirroring Baby Greg's, so long ago. All that kept running through my mind was, But we lost Baby Greg. And we lost Ani. And we can't lose any more. It took forever, but Obre was finally settled and I headed to bed, fully expecting to come to work in the morning and find that he had deteriorated overnight to the point of needing the breathing tube.
Instead, the ship is buzzing with news of the miracle.
Around midnight, Obre started to spiral downwards, his heart racing and his oxygen saturations falling. His nurse, Natalie, tried every trick in the book, but soon realized that nothing was helping. She called anesthesia who called Dr. Gary and they gathered around the baby in the dark of the night. They quickly decided to intubate, since there was no way Obre would survive otherwise. Natalie and another ICU nurse, Jenny, moved to collect supplies and draw up medications, preparing for the procedure. As they worked, they looked over to see Dr. Gary, his head bowed, hands on the baby, praying to Jehovah Rophi. It was 12:20.
At 12:25, Obre's oxygen saturations increased from sixty to a hundred percent. His racing heart slowed to normal, and the bewildered nurses put down the tools they had collected. The surgeon and anesthetist slipped away, and Obre was left, requiring just a little oxygen blowing hear his face to keep him stable. No mask. No tube. No ventilator. Absolutely no medical explanation.
There was a miracle last night. My heart has been full to bursting all day long knowing that God is so absolutely here. That He cares for each little sparrow baby, knowing that this one was falling and intervening in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
As I type, our sparrow baby is either tucked into a nest of pillows and blankets or snuggled into his mama's arms, where he's been all day, breathing easily.
We had a miracle last night. Do you know how exciting it is to be able to say that?
My office day had suddenly turned clinical when Jenn paged me. Can you help us with the baby, she asked, breathless, and then hung up. There was no question which baby she meant; Obre (or O'Brian; we're not entirely sure which name is his, since his mama uses them interchangeably) is the continuation of last week's sadness. At four months, Obre tips the scales at a hair over six and a half pounds, small even for a newborn. He has a bilateral cleft lip and palate, and was very, very sick.
Three seconds later, when I was at his bedside in B Ward, Jenn met my eyes and my heart sank as I realized that we were losing, that it all felt far too much like Baby Greg. We knelt together with Obre's nurse, holding the mask to his face as he struggled to breathe, and we knew that it wasn't looking good.
This time, though, we had something we didn't have back when Baby Greg was with us; a ventilator that can give support through a mask, the less invasive step before a breathing tube. With this huge tool in our arsenal, the decision was quickly made to transfer Obre to the ICU and let the ventilator help him breathe.
It took a long time to get him settled, and all the while I felt a sickening sense of déjà vu, watching his pitiful struggles mirroring Baby Greg's, so long ago. All that kept running through my mind was, But we lost Baby Greg. And we lost Ani. And we can't lose any more. It took forever, but Obre was finally settled and I headed to bed, fully expecting to come to work in the morning and find that he had deteriorated overnight to the point of needing the breathing tube.
Instead, the ship is buzzing with news of the miracle.
Around midnight, Obre started to spiral downwards, his heart racing and his oxygen saturations falling. His nurse, Natalie, tried every trick in the book, but soon realized that nothing was helping. She called anesthesia who called Dr. Gary and they gathered around the baby in the dark of the night. They quickly decided to intubate, since there was no way Obre would survive otherwise. Natalie and another ICU nurse, Jenny, moved to collect supplies and draw up medications, preparing for the procedure. As they worked, they looked over to see Dr. Gary, his head bowed, hands on the baby, praying to Jehovah Rophi. It was 12:20.
At 12:25, Obre's oxygen saturations increased from sixty to a hundred percent. His racing heart slowed to normal, and the bewildered nurses put down the tools they had collected. The surgeon and anesthetist slipped away, and Obre was left, requiring just a little oxygen blowing hear his face to keep him stable. No mask. No tube. No ventilator. Absolutely no medical explanation.
There was a miracle last night. My heart has been full to bursting all day long knowing that God is so absolutely here. That He cares for each little sparrow baby, knowing that this one was falling and intervening in a way that leaves no room for doubt.
As I type, our sparrow baby is either tucked into a nest of pillows and blankets or snuggled into his mama's arms, where he's been all day, breathing easily.
We had a miracle last night. Do you know how exciting it is to be able to say that?
(Page 1 of 1, totaling 2 entries)
