A Mother’s Plea

It was one in the morning or so.  I had finished my tasks and was packing up to go home. The phone rang. “You’re needed in room seven,”said the voice on the other side.  I sighed, my hopes of getting home to bed, crushed.  I walked the halls. It finally hit me,“Room seven? Skipped triage. Hmm. This can’t be good.” Walked into the room in what seemed like slow motion and doctor, nurses, monitors…everything was suddenly revolving around him. He lay there limp, twitching a little, his rib cage rising and falling at an abnormal rate and his eyes half closed.  My eyes swept the room and finally met his parents sitting motionless, almost calmly there.  It must take a lot to watch from the distance, your child laying there, you unable to help. I was impressed at the resolute quiescence of the mom. Telling the details so straightforwardly. Her three year old suffered from neurofibromatosis (NF), a rare condition (about 1/4,000) usually present from birth.

After the routine questions for eval, all I could do was join them and watch, from afar, when all I wanted was to hold his hand, rest his heart, do something. . .  I would occasionally step up to the bed and stroke this little feet, squeezing my eyes shut pleading to God.  The meds were not working well, but all we could do was wait.  The seizure wasn’t breaking. “God, mercy, please!” I thought.

I left the room in response to a page from Triage: a new patient.  The common cold, it sounded like. Words were constantly escaping me, I kept having to repeat myself,  my mind still on this kid.  In Triage, the nurse’s questions and the patient’s answers became over and over background noise, as I heard a woman crying out.  I finally stopped. The nurse and patient both waiting on me to mediate communication.  I apologized, “I’m sorry, I’m just really concerned with the patient in room seven.” The triage nurse told me to go on and check if I was needed.  I tried my best not to take off running, and walked as fast as I could over to his room.

The mother. Her composure finally broke, and I found her crying out by his bed, tear-stained face, holding her only son’s hand.  The doctor on the counter side, “I can’t understand her.” She cried helplessly, clamorously, imploringly “Heal my boy, please.  Help him.  Do something to help him. They’re getting so strong. Heal my boy.” She pulled his languid hand to her face and spoke sweetly to him, pleading also with him, questioning why this had to happen to him.  I talked to her. Held her. Repeated what the doctor said about administering different meds.  The seizures were getting stronger, and so was her despair.  I held her again.  Her broken heart slipping through my clumsy fingers, my lips somehow managing to compose a sentence telling her not to loose hope.  What else is there to say?  You can't tell someone to not fall apart when things are this way.

Everyone stepped out and for a moment in time it was just me and the parents.  I talked to God out loud this time. I held the boy’s  head and ran my fingers through his hair….I called his name, urging him to hold on. I told her God knew Him, He knew he was sick, He made him, He would do something. The mom stopped crying. And again the rush of care givers came in with fluids, meds, checking the monitors and recording the changes.  She came to the side of the bed where I was, I held her again saying nothing—or that “everything would be ok,” which lacks meaning in these type of circumstances.

He finally responded to the meds about 2:10 am.  Not back to normal by any stretch, but his heart rate and breathing were definitely more stable.  His mother finally pulled up a chair by his bed.  She laid her head on the side of the bed, now caressing his hand, now holding it up to her face—I imagined what he must be like in normalcy. All I know of him is his present state:  listless, half-gone, irresponsive, helpless.  I imagine the way he usually, voluntarily, held his mama’s face, laughing, joking, giddily asking the millions of good questions kids ask, climbing trees, coming home with muddy shoes and cut up knees. I walked  into the nurses station, there was small talk going on.  Meaningless.  And I was afraid.  Afraid of ever becoming this numb to other’s pain from over-exposure.

We airlifted him to a bigger hospital for better care. They had to drive there to be with him. I drove home. I knew that it could have been me.  It could have been my sister, Lorelai in his place and I the one falling apart. Oh God, listen to this mother’s plea as you did so many times in the past. You have said “everything is possible for him who believes.” I in turn repeat,  "I do believe, help me overcome my unbelief!”