A Miracle

I came online today to write a post about how I took Facebook off of my phone and haven't been happier, I was going to use this to officially launch my blog out to my friends, only a couple of which know that I have been writing, but then something happened.

I hit a button on my computer, I have no idea what button it was, and Youtube came up with a video that I haven't watched in at least a year.

It was a video of our priest saying mass on Friday May 25, 2022.

That date might seem really random three years later, but for us it was anything but random.

That is the day my thought-to-be brain dead daughter "woke up" minutes from when our priest asked the congregation to pray for her by name.

Overall we were in the Children's hospital for nearly six weeks, and inspired by what happened on May 25, 2022 I have tediously written a full account of those weeks. It sits on my computer finished but unedited.

I hadn't touched that project in six months. Two weeks ago I randomly opened the file and started working to edit it.

Then today, that video randomly opens up on my computer right when I'm considering telling my little world that I'm writing about life.

So I watched it and I remembered.

I remembered Emily's original diagnosis, a small miracle in itself. We'd been to various urgent cares and the ER and everyone sent us home saying it was a tummy bug. Our doctor trusted me when I told her that it was something else, did the appropriate blood work, and told me to rush her to the ER again and prepare to be admitted.

I remembered that first week in the hospital. Emily was getting stronger day by day but there were a ton of scary words and things happening - like blood transfusions and dialysis. I remember how much I missed my husband, how much I missed normal family life and how strong the love was between Emily and her three, (only three at that time), brothers.

I remembered 3AM one week into her stay when she woke me up gagging and foaming in the mouth. I remembered the adrenaline hitting my system as I frantically searched the walls for the emergency button. I remembered wrenching open the door when I couldn't find it, eyes wide, mouth gaping and moaning "help" urgently to the technician who was sitting at the computer.

I remembered him running in, taking one look and jamming his hand on the emergency button (right outside the door), I remembered the way the nurses ran and swarmed the room. How the room was too small for any other people and how before they could diagnose her, my very tired brain clicked in and gave me the term I was looking for - seizure.

I remembered them taping towels to her bed as I swayed on the spot exhausted but pumped full of adrenaline, fighting dizziness and overwhelm as my little girl sat there with bubbly drool all over her chin.

I remembered them getting her stable and then the aftermath where she thrashed for hours without them being able to figure out what was wrong and why she hadn't come back out of the post-ictal state.

I remembered that day. Calling my husband and telling him he couldn't go into work, that I needed him with me instead. Being transported to ICU and assigned our own personal nurse. Then sitting with her as she slept and woke, but wasn't really there.

I remember calling our priest, devastated, and asking that he come to the hospital if he could. "I probably need you more than she does," I said.

I remembered that evening when I told the nurse that something was still wrong. My thin daughter had thickened, almost doubled the size at her torso from back to stomach all the way up and down the visible part of her body. Then, after feeling brushed off I called our doctor again and consulted her.

I remembered sheepishly telling the same nurse that I'd gone around her and asked about it, and once again our pedestrian's recommendations set into motion the hospital staff.

I remembered the portable x-ray, I didn't even know they had those, and the diagnosis that Emily had a ton of fluid surrounding her heart - enough to stop it if it kept accumulating.

I remembered signing off on paperwork that said complications, including death, were possible with the surgery they were going to do. I remembered the doctor's reassuring smile after he told me that he'd have just seconds to cut her open, drain some of the fluid and then intubate her. "It's not the first time I've done this" he said, "she'll be ok".

I remembered praying the rosary with my husband in the waiting room, desperately clinging to him and praying each word with a ferocity that I'd never known, and hearing, in reply "she must die".

I remembered the surgery taking over an hour longer than it should've, and the feeling of intense relief when we were told that she was waking up and was going to be moved back to her room.

I remembered praying that night and begging Mary to intercede on her behalf, that she couldn't die. I remembered my intense despair and being afraid to tell my husband what I'd heard.

I remembered how that night seemed to last forever. It was too quiet, even with the beeping of the machines and the nurse coming in and out of the room. Our own personal nurse.

I remembered that nothing had changed by the time my husband came back in the next day. I remember sitting there in despair despite knowing that our priest was visiting that night. I couldn't believe that our daughter might be braindead. I remember the doctors trying to figure out what to do for her and selecting eculizumab, one of the most expensive drugs in the US, just to see what happened.

I remember sitting on the couch on the back wall, Emily on the bed way infront of me, staring into space, multiple IV poles in my immediate vision, as a new nurse came in on the lunch shift and made a comment to Emily like she was actually responsive.

I remember my demanding tone when I asked the nurse "Is she awake?" and the nurse nodded confused and then I said "I mean, is she responding?" and the nurse nodded without any idea that she'd last responded over 36 hours ago.

I remember rushing to her bedside and asking her if she knew who I was. Intubated, she couldn't talk, but she nodded, alive, awake, brain functioning.

I remember yelling at Hal, who was dozing on the couch, "Hal! She's responding!" and holding her hand and asking her other silly questions to prove to myself that it wasn't a fluke.

I remember texting my priest after I'd spent a few minutes with her and telling her that she'd woken up.

I remember my priest texting back, "I'd just asked the congregation to pray for her, right before consecration". It was May 25, 2022 the feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the timing, narrowed down to a five-minute window, was too coincidental to be a coincidence.

Finally, I remember him showing up and confirming her. Then I remember talking to him confidentially and his assurance that it was not God that sent me that "she must die" message. God wouldn't cause that anxiety.

I remember learning that Satan can talk to us too and likes to attack us when we are at our weakest.

Today I re-lived the miracle of my daughter in a few minutes. It seriously took forever to type, but only moments to remember. I also remembered that being too busy, too crazy, too stressed about life is a way that we block God out and let the evil one in. I've been down on life lately. We do ok financially but we've had unexpected burden after burden after burden and that plus work, illnesses and the chaos of back to school has really gotten me down. I feel like I've let Satan slip in when I should be extra vigilant about guarding myself and trying to keep him out.

Lord God, Protect my little family and the families of those reading this.

In Faith,

Kristian

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Kristian is a mom of six, Program Manager by day, active Professional Photographer by trade, and a big believer in finding beauty in the everyday chaos.

Life in our house is loud, messy and full of literally everything. Love, noise, laundry, laughter, and definitely could use a bit more grace. I'm happily married to my best friend, grounded in my Catholic faith, and fueled by five to six hours of sleep per night and adrenaline.

I try to find joy in the everyday — even when it's wild, because without the little bit of joy, this life would be unbearable. This space is for the moms in the middle of it all: the ones juggling family, faith, work, and wonder. The ones that need someone else's messy life to make their own seem better or somewhat normal. You're not alone, and you're doing better than you think.

Welcome to Six Sweet Smiles — where we celebrate the mess, the miracles, and everything in between.