The Accident - Circle of Prayer - Part 3
I’ve had several private messages from people who have gone back and read the blog posts about my daughter’s accident: The Phone Call and Medevaced. I realized I left you all in the lurch with how that story turned out, so we’ll take a brief, two-week break, from the Tiny Home blogs to give you completion. Thanks for bearing with me. (So if you haven’t read them already, you might want to go back and catch up before reading this).
*** MARCH 2005
Forty-five minutes later I’m at the airport. It’s still dark out, but it’s now four o’clock. The flurry of activity to pack a few clothes and hightail it to the airport has kept me from falling apart. I am first in line when the Aloha Airlines counter opens.
Now is the time for a long story, after the agent tells me the first two flights to Oahu are fully booked. She nods with sympathy and understanding, silently taps on her computer for several minutes, then hands a ticket across to me for the first flight out at six a.m. I say a silent ‘sorry and thank you’ to the person who will show up this morning to find that they have inexplicably been bumped to a later flight. The ticket agent is one of many angels who will show up for Chelsea and me in the following weeks and months.
“God speed ma’am, I will say a prayer for your daughter.” I swallow hard, this is not the place to have a meltdown, but at the slightest hint of kindness, I realize how close to the surface it is.
In the hurry-up-and-wait syndrome that is familiar to hospitals everywhere, I now have to sit patiently while Chelsea undergoes more testing including an MRI.
The consultation with her neurosurgeon uncovers a new level of horror. She will need delicate surgery to stabilize her neck, including the placement of a titanium plate to hold together the various parts of C6 that are broken. But first, they need to try and re-orient the bones.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Her facets jumped,” he says looking me in the eye. He knows I have a rudimentary understanding of anatomy. He pantomimes with his hands – instead of palms facing each other, the back of the hands are.
“What? How is that possible?” The facet joints between the vertebrae are almost vertical and help keep the spine stable. To this day I’m unable to visualize how her bones were able to perform this maneuver while not damaging her spinal cord.
“I know, it’s a miracle. SHE’s a miracle,” he nods his head slowly up and down to make sure I understand the gravity of this situation. “We will need to keep her awake for the first part of the operation while we try to get the vertebrae lined up properly so that we can make sure we don’t injure the spinal cord. We will have to attach a clamp to her head and traction her neck.”
I passed overwhelm five minutes ago. I suddenly don’t need any more details. This breaks down into its simplest equation for me.
“I know that it’s ideal that the facets line up, but she can walk right now, please make sure that she can still walk afterwards.” I want to remind him of the best possible outcome.
He nods. “I understand. We will do our very best.”
Later in Chelsea’s ICU room, a nurse tells me that the doctor is the best neurosurgeon at the hospital. Then she hands me several papers for Chelsea to sign. I look down.
“DNR?” I say to her, louder than I had intended. “Are you kidding me?”
“Your daughter should look at these and sign them before surgery. I’m sorry.” The nurse looks down, obviously not pleased to be the bearer of more bad news.
I look at Chelsea asleep in the bed. I have not slept in three nights. Not one single minute. I have not dared give my emotions a voice yet either. I imagine coffee and some eating have occurred, but I have no memory of either. My brain is working on autopilot. Chelsea and I both know the power of positive thinking for a positive outcome. I can’t imagine that putting a pen to these papers will assist with that. I look at the documents again, crumple them up, and throw them in the trash.
As she is wheeled out of the room for surgery I finally surrender to the inevitable. As her head disappears out of the door tears start flowing. Not uncontrollable yet. Just quietly letting some of the mountain of stress from the past three days, leak onto the floor. A nurse comes in and sits with me, handing me Kleenex. I’m grateful for her silence. There is nothing to say.
In the courtyard of the cafeteria, I sit, grateful for the nurturing warmth of the sun, and fresh air which I have not breathed in several days. I close my eyes and pray. HARD! I continue to cry, but it’s the tip of the iceberg, gently letting off some steam. I sip my tea as I return some calls. I ask everyone to please pray for Chelsea and see her fully recovered.
I discover that people are praying for Chelsea all around the world and all over the US. Our family and friends in Rochester. My family in various places in England. Friends and a convent of nuns (I still don’t have any idea how that happened) in Canada. A friend in Japan is teaching a class, they all circle and pray for Chelsea. Another friend is visiting family in Israel, they all pray for her. As I visualize this community of prayer encircling the world I suddenly feel a surge of support—a divine gift.
