Life is busy. And hard. I am starting graduate school in January. Our kids are now spread from kindergarten to college. I wish I had more answers to life and parenting than I had at this time last year. I fear that I may actually have fewer...
In October, our youngest son, J.T. was very sick. It came on suddenly with chills one morning that looked and felt like hypothermia. Within several minutes he was in and out of consciousness, then vomiting and then in a grand mal seizure. Chris called the doctor's office and then we rushed out to take him to the hospital. His heart was racing but otherwise there was no indication he was breathing. We never even made it to the freeway. Both Chris and I knew in our hearts, in that way that only comes in the heat of true emergencies, that we might be fighting for his life. We made it to our fire station and they grabbed him from our car and ran him to an aid car. I rode in the back with him to the hospital. We got caught by a train crossing on the way. I looked out the window at the cars waiting around us. I knew they could not possibly imagine what I was managing inside. I wondered what it would be like to just be driving to church like we had planned. I was calm when the medic asked how I was doing. I was calm when they told me they decided he still wasn't acting quite right after a seizure. I was calm when we pulled off the freeway as another medic crew boarded our ambulance. I was calm as I forced medicine down my son's throat. I almost smiled at the compliment from a paramedic on how quickly I did it. I muttered something about this not being my first rodeo and they all laughed.
But inside my world changed. I looked out those ambulance windows and wasn't sure I could be the same. To my horror I found myself looking out the window to avoid looking at J.T. When I looked at him, it didn't feel like him. He wasn't there in his eyes and his voice was different. Half of me was terrified that I had become someone who couldn't look at their child, and the other half of me was terrified that he had become someone else. I don't think there is a way to explain what that felt like. I didn't find peace about it until we met with a pediatric neurologist a week later who explained that he was still seizing in the ambulance and then was only just beginning to come out of the seizure. He WASN'T there for awhile, I had just never experienced that before and it was terrifying. We'd had emergencies before, and even one with this same kid. But there is something so scary about a seizure like that, that my brain only had the capacity to keep my lungs breathing and allowed me a small bit of energy to answer questions like my address and my son's date of birth. When they asked me his weight, I had no idea. That's when I knew I was in shock.
So J.T. didn't get better at the hospital. His neurological behavior scared Chris and I, and soon concerned the ER staff. We quickly heard that moving him down to Children's Hospital, two hours away, was the best thing for him. Chris held him upright for a chest X-ray and we both cleaned him up as he vomited during the CT scan of his brain. We changed his clothes when he didn't have control of his body, and held him as he gripped the side of the bed, screaming that he was falling. We watched his strange head movements and talked to him during periods when he had no speech.
And then the door of J.T.'s room opened and a group of medical staff came in. Chris and I both knew in that second that things might be getting worse. The consulting pediatrician told us that they didn't feel he was stable enough to continue the testing. They wanted him down in Children's for the spinal tap and anything else that was coming. When we heard the words airlift, Chris' head hit the bed for a second and my mind went numb. In our town, airlifting someone to a bigger hospital happens. But we do have a trauma center and great services that serve several counties right where we were. So when we hear airlift, it means something super serious. My mind stayed numb as we answered more questions. Out the window we saw his helicopter arrive. When the flight team came we were asked if one of us would like to fly with them. It was decided that I would go. I was thankful to already be in shock because the idea of being in a helicopter terrified me under the best of circumstances. But we couldn't imagine J.T. in a hospital by himself for hours while we tried to drive down there to meet him. J.T. and I boarded an ambulance that took us to the helicopter. His body was so small on the stretcher. I looked out the ambulance window and wondered what you were supposed to feel when you were driven up to a helicopter with your 5 year-old. I felt myself breathing in and out and that was about all I could handle. They loaded J.T. in the back and I was told to sit in the front. I hit my head getting in and barely felt it, thankful for my shock.
For the next 25 minutes I had a beautiful view of the world I live in. It would have been spectacular under different circumstances. It was so much different from riding on a plane. I was close enough to recognize stores and roads, yet I could see all over the counties and the mountains at the same time. The view made my conversation with God easier because it was almost like I was sitting with Him looking down at the world - like J.T. and I had been removed from it for 20 minutes. The pilot was kind and sensitive and didn't talk much. He pointed out a couple of landmarks and explained what would happen when we got there. The rest of the time I talked to God. I thanked Him for J.T. and every second we have had him. I asked God to heal whatever was wrong and restore J.T.'s brain to who we knew him to be earlier that morning. I also gave my son to God. I surrendered my dreams and plans for J.T. in acceptance of what may be. I realized that my longing for J.T. to be whole and in my life, is probably only a fraction of what our Father feels for us, even me. In my terror and my shock, I felt peace. I really did. Looking out those helicopter windows around and below me I realized that the God who loves this place and the people here, loves J.T. and Chris and me. And no matter what happened when we got to Children's, He still loves us.
I had no idea how much a helicopter ride cost, but I would do anything to find healing for my son. As we chugged along I realized that all the families that had loved ones in these helicopters every day probably have to pay that bill, even if their loved one didn't find healing. My heart squeezed hard at that thought, for families that have to pay loads of medical bills after their child is gone and I wondered how that would feel if it happened to us. But even then, He loves us. I prayed for my niece, sweet Sheridan, who had been in a school shooting only two days before and for several of her classmates who were fighting for their lives. Life changes us in a second and we don't have the option of going back to what was before. On that bright, clear October day, I realized deeply and maybe in a new way, that my Father's love is honestly the only thing I really have. All the people I love might be gone in an instant, or slowly and painfully as some families endure. Even then, He loves us, even me.
J.T. slowly got better. We were released the next day and met with a pediatric neurologist the next week. Further testing showed no underlying seizure disorder. The neurologist believes that he had a 40-60 minute seizure brought on by a freak virus, like the ones that are on the news these days. J.T. took a full month before returning to normal. He had weekly high fevers. Either his immune system was so down that he caught several viruses back-to-back or that was one LONG freak virus. Then one day he was funny again. He was active and goofy and not weak and strange anymore. It took Chris and I another month after that to recover emotionally, although we are both changed for good.
This is the kid we visited in the NICU after birth, so we've never taken his special life for granted. But something about the seizure and the hours of neurological symptoms afterwards scared us in some really deep place. We've had many reminders in recent years that life is fragile and short and changes in an instant. But this instant was OUR life and something changed in Chris and me. His kindergarten teacher showed me a picture he had drawn in his journal the following week. It was a red helicopter and he had drawn himself on a bed in the back and me in the front (like I was driving :). It was pretty darn accurate and I think he is okay emotionally. He remembers parts of it, but I think Chris and I felt the trauma. We don't know what the future holds. It may happen again. It took a month to let him be alone in another room. We have had lots of health issues in our family, but this is our first seizure experience. I now can imagine what families face as they live their lives with the constant possibility of a child's seizure.
I was in 3 ambulances and a helicopter with J.T. that day. From the windows I felt numb, removed, terror and peace. I looked at the world outside that had been normal and mine just that morning. I had become a visitor in a strange land where things are both confusing and crystal clear at the same time, while the people in cars around or below me went on with their daily lives thinking about short term decisions and stresses that yesterday had been mine too. It is important to know that life is short and to love deeply. And from the helicopter I realized that no matter what comes, my Father's love is one thing I can count on. He sees everything and misses nothing. Even me.
