When our family doctor explained that my ten-month-old son Daniel would have to undergo cardiac tests at the Children's Medical Center, I was stunned. For once I had not expected the worst. The first two years of his older sister's life found me envisioning every cold as pneumonia, every sore muscle as polio, every high fever as spinal meningitis. Most mothers harbor fears for their children's health. Mine were extreme.
But this time, my anticipation was positive. I was certain that my son's x-rays would show that nothing was abnormal and that only allergies were causing his rattly breathing. However, the results revealed that my baby's trachea was being pressed by a swollen blood vessel. He must be hospitalized for three days of tests.
Following the examinations, my husband Lyndell and I consulted the pediatric cardiologist. "The operation involves removing the narrow area and then sewing both ends of the aorta back together," stated Dr. Johnson, as he informed us that Daniel had a fairly rare birth defect—a co-arctation of the aorta, a condition in which the main artery leaving the heart is "pinched-in". The defect causes the child's blood pressure to be higher in his upper extremities (thus the swollen vessel) and lesser in the lower parts of his body. Daniel would require heart surgery when he was four; otherwise, he could die of cardiac arrest.
Needless to say, at first I felt guilty, wondering whether anything I did during my pregnancy could have caused my child's condition. Also, anger overwhelmed me that this precious child should have to suffer through surgery; finally self-pity expressed itself in my crying a lot. These painful emotions had to be acknowledged and accepted as normal. With the help of Dan's specialist, an understanding and patient husband, and a sometimes wavering faith in God, I was able to resolve my feelings.
The next few years literally zoomed by. I was so busy caring for two small children, keeping house, and getting involved in outside interests that these years were relatively free from concern about Daniel's heart condition. After all, he looked and acted normal—except that he tired easily. Wearily he would remark, "Mommy, I'm soggy." ("Soggy" was his word for "tired".) His dad and I were grateful, however, that he had no withered limbs.
Too soon, at the end of a summer, our son's fourth birthday was imminent. A decision had to be made. Since we were planning to move into a new home, Lyndell and I decided that surgery would add an unnecessary stress factor. So we postponed the inevitable until March.
Prior to the operation I discovered a magazine article entitled "Questions to Ask Before Surgery". I copied a multitude of questions with which I later bombarded the surgeon in his office. Afterwards Dr. Adam grinned and said, "I'll be glad to meet you at the operating room door for inspection, if you like."
The day we checked Daniel into the hospital found us filling out more forms than we knew existed and meeting two other doctors: the anesthesiologist and the surgeon who was to assist. The latter was a young man, a Dr. Lowell, who repeated once again the main risk in this type of surgery— total paralysis from the neck down.
When I had first learned this risk from Dr. Adam, I could visualize myself caring for a quadraplegic for the rest of his life. It almost devastated me.
But this time I was prepared to sign the release forms. That very morning as I was reading chapter forty-one of Psalms, two verses literally leaped from the pages: the first part of verse two, "The Lord will protect him, and keep him alive," and verse three, "The Lord will sustain him upon his sickbed; in his illness, Thou dost restore him to health." Someone could have accused me of taking those verses out of context, yet it seemed as though God Himself were speaking directly to me. And so I had the strength to face this one last hurdle.
After completing all the paper work, I escorted my son, who had had his final x-rays and blood tests, to his bed in a ward. Other parents were trying to make themselves comfortable in the recliner chairs which were to serve as their beds for the night. Although a light sleeper, I was determined to stay with Daniel. He became sleepy after several stories and coloring. Since he had not yet had surgery, he did not complain when I climbed into bed beside him.
We slept, and morning came too soon. I bathed and prepped Dan for surgery. He cried because he was not allowed to eat. After Lyndell arrived, we accompanied our son to the operating room. Daniel admitted softly, "Mommy, I'm scared." I told him once again, "Even though you cannot see Him, Jesus will be in there with you." Our brave little boy, without another word, was wheeled away.
I could not pray for Dan any longer. So in the intensive care waiting room, my prayers were for the other parents. One mother said she did not know whether her child would live after stomach surgery. A father paced the floor. His son was having brain surgery.
My family and several close friends waited with us. Surprisingly, the three hours slipped by. Then Dr. Adam entered the room. He paused. "Everything wiggles."
I wanted to hug him. My sister tearfully squeezed me, and my father dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. The tension others had felt was released. Other parents were congratulating us. I now am amazed at how calm and relaxed I was during and after the ordeal. It was totally unlike me. God's sustaining grace, which answered our prayers, is the only explanation I have.
This same grace got me through the next few days. I was definitely unprepared for the intensive care unit. My four-year-old was the oldest one there. The sights and sounds of the monitoring equipment, the constant activity of the personnel, the crying of the infants as nurses pounded their backs to dislodge phlegm and encourage the coughing which would prevent pneumonia—all of these impressions are vivid even now.
My son had a drainage tube sticking out of his side. He was breathing oxygen through a plastic mask. They told me his incision was on his back. Then it was Daniel's turn to be pounded. I hurt for him. His weak attempts at coughing made me his sideline coach. "Come on, Daniel, you have to cough. Come on, you can do it."
Then he needed sleep. We visited him one other time that day. My husband stayed overnight, while I went home to rest.
The next evening, Daniel was moved to a semi-private room. His roommate was a two-year-old boy who was hospitalized for cystic fibrosis tests. The child's mother finally quieted him for the night. Daniel slept. Exhausted, I tried very hard to get comfortable in that recliner. Just as I would doze, on would come the lights, off and on for two hours—a nurse to check Dan's glucose, one for his temperature, then the pounding again. I could not take it. I phoned my husband at one in the morning; he arrived to take me home thirty minutes later.
The next few nights we allowed the nursing staff to watch our son. They did a beautiful job. At first I felt like a failure, because I really wanted to be with Daniel. But then I realized my goal deep down was to play the role of martyr mother. Daniel needed me, but not at the expense of my own well-being.
Our "baby" thrilled us with his rapid recovery. The second morning after surgery, Lyndell walked into Dan's room to find him coming out of the bathroom. "I needed to go" was his matter-of-fact explanation. The third morning Daniel's grandad witnessed a tricycle race between Daniel and a new found friend. From that point on, we were sure of a complete recuperation.
Thank God for the moments of humor thrown into a serious situation. Like the time Daniel observed a little girl loudly protesting a shot and the nurse commanding, "Take this like a little lady." Dan then declared, "I'm not going to cry. I'm going to be a little lady." Also, my son reacted with distaste for his surgeon who visited him the day after surgery. Only the day before surgery, Daniel had liked him. And when we were leaving after a week, Dan begged to go back sometime, "because they give me goodies Mommy won't".
The day we brought Daniel home, I reflected on his stay: the quiet, wide-eyed way a small child erectly sat on the bed being wheeled into surgery as if expecting to see a circus, the weakness of this very active little four-year-old in intensive care, the amazing idea of his racing a tricycle in the hospital halls only three days after surgery, his sweet response to the nurses and the many friends who visited, his eagerness to return. These many memories set into relief my own tensions, worries, and inconsistent faith. I prayed, "Lord, give me the trusting attitude of a little child."
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March 20, 1979
Mr. Arthur Gordon
Guideposts Magazine 747 Third Avenue
New York, N. Y. 10017
Dear Sir:
As a homemaker, mother of two, and former English and biology teacher, I have had no more profound an impact upon my life than the situation which the attached manuscript relates. I hope that my struggle of faith might touch and encourage another person. Surely parents can identify with my anxieties and doubts. Perhaps there is someone who has yet to experience a crisis such as mine, but who would benefit by knowing there is a personal God who can comfort, strengthen, and even cushion by His presence a personal trial.
I humbly request that you read and accept this article.
Sincerely yours,
Barbara Waters Scott
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Did y'all know that mom and I had a couple of pretty big things in common? We both had one child born with life threatening conditions. We both had one child who experienced surgeries at an early age. We both felt the fear and discomfort of extended hospital stays with that child. We both felt compelled to write about it eventually.
It's amazing that we still managed to miss the boat connecting on a deeper level. Or maybe we did, but neither of us knew how to manifest that connection in our daily lives.
Daniel's prayer request post on Facebook reminded me that I was going to publish my mom's story that she wrote and submitted to Guideposts Magazine back in 1979. Although, it was rejected and went unpublished into a home file, I feel like her intent was to put her story out there. So I'd like to fulfill that intent for her.
