June 15th: when fear became reality
I've had a bit of a mental block lately, which is why my posts have been infrequent. Writing is one of the ways I process my emotions, the way I make sense of it all. I've wanted to write about what happened to Jack--to our family--on June 15th for a while now, I just haven't found the time to sit down and put it all into words. Thus the block. Because I haven't had a chance to process this, I feel like writing about everything else (running for example) is on hold because I just can't get there yet. This is a highly personal post and has nothing to do with running, so if you're just coming to this blog for the first time in search of running related content you'll have to wait a day or two (or feel free to search the archives). But many of you who follow my blog regularly I consider friends. You have all expressed care and concern in regards to what our family has gone through with Jack and so that is why I share. Also this whole event has been life changing/shaping, it's almost impossible not to include it in my writing here on this blog because it is REAL and very much impacts who I am today.I turned out of our driveway on our way to run a few errands. It was every bit summer as you'd expect the first day of summer to be: blue sky, sunshine that warms the skin. The windows and sunroof were all open, the soundtrack to the movie Rio was blasting on our radio (that's the way this mother-runner rolls) and Sophia and Jack were laughing, screeching and bopping in the back. In that moment I felt a gratefulness so big, so tangible I thought it might boil over from it's place in my heart and carry us down the street on a wave of gratitude, like a boat bobbing in a flooded river. I felt pure joy. The intensity of that joy and gratitude is only matched by the intensity of my anxiety and fear earlier in the week. The Saturday before at 10:30pm my husband and I started to get ready for bed. Jack had cried out a few times in his sleep but had settled himself back down. I thought he might be cutting a few new teeth and went in to check on him and give him some teething tablets. At my touch he started to cry and scream, as if simply rolling him over was excruciatingly painful. We brought him into our room, took his temperature and searched his body for anything that could be wrong. His temperature was 101.6, not alarmingly high, but there were other red flags: he wouldn't nurse. We stripped off his pajamas and applied a cool wash cloth to his forehead, still searching and trying to find out what was wrong. Jack calmed down a little, but if we moved him in the slightest he wailed. Mark left the room to get another wet wash cloth and some children's Tylenol and at that moment I noticed that Jack's back was swollen above and below his incision. In that instant everything changed, I knew it was serious. "Mark! His back is swollen. We gotta go!"
I knew we needed to get him to the emergency room as soon as possible. I put Jack's pajama shirt back on and frantically searched for flip-flops while my husband woke our three year old daughter, Sophia. Still searching for my flip-flops, my husband started down the stairs carrying our bleary-eye daughter. "C'mon Sarah! I've got her. I've got his car seat. I'll meet you in the car," the urgency in my husband's voice bordered on panic. I found the flip-flops under the bed and in one motion slid them on and headed for the stairs, clutching my sick son in my arms.
We arrived at the hospital, just across town in a matter of minutes. Mark dropped Jack and I off at the ER entrance, where I went up to the desk. There was a line. Nothing elicits more angry adrenaline than waiting in line at the ER. I seethed as the woman in front of me answered questions about her address, the spelling of her last name and her insurance information. Deep breath, Sarah. Deep breath. And then it was our turn. By then Mark had joined me and there we stood: a pajama-ed family of four, our daughter without shoes, my son without shorts, my husband and I responding rapidly to each question, as if doing so could somehow bring resolution to the entire situation, that it would make Jack stop crying.
"C-A-N-N-E-Y," we spelled simultaneously. "Jack. Just Jack, its not short for anything."
We were handed a pager. "It will vibrate and beep when they are ready for you," the woman behind the desk instructed us. All that adrenaline, the rush to get to the ER, the speed with which we answered the questions slammed into the STOP that was the pager. Those six or seven minutes in the ER waiting room felt like 45. Jack cried. I held him. Sophia asked where we were and why? And why didn't she have any shoes on? And Jack cried more. And the panic and fear that something was really wrong with my son rose inside me pressing up from my gut into my chest, cutting short my breath. There was an acute awareness that I was living one of my biggest fears: that something terrible would happen to one of my children. Here I was holding my son who was in pain. The source of the pain, unknown but clearly related to his surgery, possibly infection? And I knew enough to know that infection at a surgical sight is serious and in the worst cases fatal. In that moment my mind played out the worst possible outcome: I would lose my son.
I closed my eyes to block it out. I held Jack close, kissing his forehead, whispering "Shhhh. It's OK. Mama's got you," over and over again. And I prayed. "God!" That's all I could manage. Not "God please protect my son." Not "God please heal him." Just and exasperated cry, a breath: God. I inhaled deeply, eyes still pressed shut. Chaos. Panic. My world spinning around me, in me. But when I opened my eyes I felt a presence. And a voice inside me, not my own said "I am with you." The panic began to subside as I repeated over and over, "I am with you."
In that moment, more than any other time in my life I felt as if God was with me, that no matter the outcome even if whatever was making my son sick was fatal, I would not be alone. I would be able to make it through. Even though I was at the end of myself, at the end of my own ability to cope with everything that was happening I felt that there was a larger, deeper source from which I could find strength and peace. And I let that peace wash over me.
Shortly after they nurse escorted us back into the ER. I climbed onto the bed still holding Jack. We hurriedly explained the signs, the symptoms, his surgery at CHaD a month before, the comment the surgeon had made about fluid collection and possible infection, any and all information we thought would be helpful. In that moment I seriously doubted the skill or the people at our local hospital. Would they know what to do? Would they understand the surgery that Jack had? They took his vitals. Jack protested with short cries of pain whenever they moved and manipulated him, but settled into a low whimper. They told us the doctor would be in shortly. When he arrived we told the story all over again. He took a look, mentioned something about an infected seroma and retreived the ultrasound machine. He took another look. I could see the pocket of dark fluid on the screen. "Yep. There's definitely fluid under there." And then he left.
A nurse came back in and informed us that the Doctor was calling CHaD to see what they wanted him to do. I felt a sense of relief that the direction of Jack's care would be dictated by the surgical and pediatric team at CHaD. She said they also needed to get an IV going so they could start Jack on an antibiotic. Jack had quieted down, his head rested against my chest. I knew the IV was going to be a challenge. For all of Jack's procedures he has been under general anesthesia when they have inserted the IV and I've never been present. A strong mix of dread and heartbreak welled up inside me, this was not going to be fun. The nurse began to look, wrapping his arm with the rubber band she searched his arm, his hand on one side then moved to the other. Jack began to cry at the pinching band. She went back to the first side, looking, looking. Nothing. Another EMT came in and did the same, one side, then the other. Looking. Looking. No vein. Jack cried louder. Three more nurses came in and looked. With each manipulation Jack cries became more intense. For nearly an hour five different people looked for a vein and then looked again. Finally, one of the EMTs brought around the ultrasound machine and searched Jack's arm, he found a vein. He and the nurse prepped the sight and using the ultrasound guided the needle into Jack's vein. I held Jack tight against me. Trying to keep his writhing body from moving to much. He screamed with every ounce of energy he had. I closed my eyes and held on trying to calm Jack with a gentle "shhhh," but wondered if he could even hear me over his own cries. For what seemed like an eternity they manipulated the needle into his vein, until finally the needle found its home. In that moment I was so grateful that they had searched so long and only pricked him once. They released the rubber band around Jack's arm and tapped the IV into place. Jack's cries faded into a wimper and then he fell asleep.
The whole time Mark stood in the hallway with Sophia. It was just past midnight when we'd made a phone call to my in-laws and they were on there way to come pick up Sophia and take her home to sleep, but they hadn't arrived yet. Once Jack stopped crying, Mark reentered the room. Our eyes met with a look of fear, heartbreak and love; quietly trying to find comfort in the fact that we were in this together. Shortly after that my in-laws arrived and took Sophia home. We kissed her goodbye and promised to be there in the morning when she woke up. Not long after they administered the antibiotic and Jack started to nurse. The doctor came back, sat down and said "I'm just going to draw some fluid from the seroma and then we'll get you on your way up to Dartmouth." What? His statement echoed in our ears.
"Right now?" My husband asked.
Wait. You mean we aren't going home? Our night isn't over? You don't know what's wrong? I felt confused. Even though I knew going into the ER that what Jack was experiencing was serious I didn't think it was transferred-via-ambulance-in-the-middle-of-the-night serious. I thought we'd have a late night, be in the ER till maybe three or four in the morning and then head home, tired, worn out but resolved with medicine for Jack. We'd be there in the morning like we promised Sophia. We'd enjoy father's day like we had planned: a special breakfast, the present, the card. This news brought on a new sense of urgency and anxiety. We scrambled to make plans: Mark would drive up ahead of me, first he'd stop back at the house to get his wallet and phone. I'd ride in the ambulance with Jack. Mark left and as I waited for the transfer ambulance to arrive I dozed in an out of sleep the sounds of the ER in the background, Jack quietly sleeping on my chest. The transfer team arrived and I woke Jack to strap him into his car seat. He cried as his back pressed into the seat and I tightened the straps. They secured him on the gurney and by 3:36am we were loaded into the ambulance and on our way.
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Within a few minutes Jack was sleeping again. In the ambulance time warped and bended, the two hour drive seemed to take forever and no time at all. Sometimes I talked to the EMT, sometimes I slumped over with sleep only to jerk awake as my head dipped forward. I'd check on Jack and then check the time on my phone. And then the light of sunrise started to fill the back of the ambulance, and with that light the the realization that I'd been awake for 24 hours...
I'll post the second half tomorrow.
--Sarah