Last Monday was a typical gray spring morning. It rained off and on and looked generally dreary, since we're only just beginning to see the start of green here and there. That morning, from the kitchen window I spotted the only bits of color in the yard: the crocuses.
Since they're so small, they might be easy to miss in a big yard, except their colors are so bright! I can't even remember when I planted them -- at least 15 years ago, I bet. I ordered them from a Breck's catalog, and was sure they'd spread and create this carpet of color in the front yard. I was wrong - there are still only about 5 or 6 of them, but they are one of the highlights of spring for me, partly because they're always the first spring color we get!
It wasn't until I downloaded the picture to my computer and saw it on the monitor, that I noticed all the water droplets. I read a quote from Jim Wilson once that said something like, the more distant you are from an object, the more mysterious it seems. This is true when you think about the view from an airplane, or of a distant house lit up at night, or faraway lands. But what is also true is that the closer you get to an object, the better you can see and appreciate its detail and beauty -- things you couldn't have seen from a distance. The beauty is there, surrounding us, or as Elizabeth Barrett Browning said
Day 3: Putting a teddy bear beside him
almost made it seem like he was just sleeping.
Day 8: Two days after the breathing tube was removed.
Day 5: Big sisters get to visit. He was still sedated.
So, back in August, we passed the one-year anniversary of The Big Scare of
2014 – Trent’s hospitalization. In the days leading up to the
anniversary, we had lots of flashbacks of the utter shock and despair of August 7, and
the ten days that followed. However, in spite of the indelible memories and the ripples that followed, I sometimes thought if we didn’t have pictures and
video, it would’ve been hard to believe it really happened. But it really did.
And now it’s December, and we’ve hit another important one-year anniversary: the
day we found the final piece of the puzzle that helped us understand what made
our healthy boy so very sick.
He was released on August 17th, weak but happy, with lots of balloons and
toys, smiles and well wishes from the staff … and with follow-up appointments
with specialists. There had to be a reason why he got so sick, pneumonia plus
something. What was the “something”? As we drove up our gravel road on
the way home from the hospital, I was increasingly nervous. Could it have been
an allergic reaction to the new paint in our recently-remodeled bathroom? Our
musty basement? The old barn he and Grant played in just before he got sick? Was
it something in his bed, where I found him gray that morning? It was unsettling
to be taking him back to the place where it all started … especially since it
was our own home. He and I slept on the couch that first night.
The next few days and weeks were full of phone calls, filling out forms and
taking my reluctant little guy to appointments. The infectious disease doctor
who treated him in the hospital drew three tubes of blood to test for common and
rare blood and immune disorders. We tested him for Cystic Fibrosis. For the
first time ever, we got flu shots for all the kids. At the advice of the
doctors, I made several trips to the county health department and we had our
well water tested for nitrates, nitrites and bacteria.
I even met with a local
agricultural company which tests herbicides directly across the street from
our house. That’s practically a story within a story.
“You HAVE to find out what they’re spraying”
For years, there’s been a small plot of farmland across our gravel road that
has been used for testing herbicides. Before last year, we weren’t sure what
they were doing, but it was obvious they were testing something. Most of the
time, there’s no one in the entire field except the farmers during planting and
harvest time. Occasionally, we’d see a couple of guys with small farm equipment
tilling, planting and hand-spraying that plot. We also saw them walking around
with clipboards, taking notes. Sometimes, I wondered if I should be concerned -
after all, ours is the only house within a half mile in all directions, so why
would they care if it was harmful?
But when Trent got sick, we considered everything. While talking to
the pulmonologist at the hospital, I mentioned the test plot. He was alarmed.
“You HAVE to find out what they’re spraying.”
So, I scheduled a meeting with some reps from the ag testing
company.I was vague about why I wanted to meet, saying we had a child
with breathing issues and were looking for causes. They came to our home,
bringing several folders and lots of documents describing the materials they
worked with. “Everything we use is commercially available,” they said as soon as
they came in. I was not reassured. After describing what they did and assuring
me they took precautions, they asked for more details about Trent’s “breathing
issues”. When I gave them the summary of what happened, they were quiet. I
asked: was it possible that what they sprayed could be a factor? They couldn’t
rule it out, except for one important fact: they hadn’t sprayed anything in the
fields for at least a month prior, and the chemicals were absorbed into the
ground within 24 hours of spraying. What if our dogs were there right after the
spraying, then came into the yard and Trent hugged them? They admitted they couldn’t say for sure if that would cause problems,
but timing would be an important factor in that. As they left, they asked me to
keep in touch and offered to move their operation if necessary. It was all very
unsettling, but the delay between the spraying and Trent’s illness made it seem
unlikely to be a factor.
What was most promising to us was the upcoming pulmonology appointment. I’d
heard about the “pulmonary function tests” they performed which diagnosed
underlying lung issues. This was the possibility the doctors had talked about
most often, so I had high expectations for this visit. Surely, it would give us
answers.
Appointments and disappointments.
The hour-long appointment was with a nurse practitioner who asked many of the
questions we’d answered in the hospital. He examined Trent, who was perfectly
healthy and had been since his release. We talked about his medication (it was
the first time I’d ever heard the terms “control med” and “rescue med”), the
hospitalization, how rare the plastic bronchitis was, how lucky we were. But at
the end of the appointment, we left without any solid answers. Unfortunately,
the pulmonary function test couldn’t be done until he was at least 4 years old,
which was just one month away. I updated Mom on the way home, “There’s no news.
We’re just supposed to keep giving him his daily breathing treatments. They
don’t know; they’re just basically treating him like an asthmatic.” I felt
defeated. In spite of some doubts, I followed doctor’s orders and kept giving
him his meds. The memories were still too fresh and terrifying, and I wanted to
do whatever we could to avoid it all again.
Other leads were dead-ends, too. When the water tests results came back, I
told Mick: “I have good news and bad news. The good news is: our water is fine.
The bad news is: our water is fine.” The Cystic Fibrosis test was negative. All
the blood work came back negative. “Trent has a healthy immune system,” the
doctor said. When I told this to a friend, she sensed my ambivalence. “This is a
good thing, right?” Of course it’s a good thing – a wonderful thing! - but if we
don’t know what caused all that, how can we prevent it from happening again?
So, the days passed and I kept replaying everything in my head, trying to
make sense of it. Trying to understand. Trying desperately hard not to worry.
But I did. I worried each time I heard something that sounded even remotely like
gasping for air. And little boys just love to make sound effects, so that
happened a lot. I worried if he was too quiet, especially in the car. “Trent,
are you OK?” “Yes Mommy. Why do you keep asking me that?” Many mornings, I’d
sneak into his bedroom just before it got light to check his face for signs of
gray and listen for steady breathing. One morning, I noticed what looked like a
huge purple bruise on his arm. Could this be it? That “something other” that had
made him so sick? I examined it more closely and realized it was slightly sticky
… from the sap of the pine trees he’d played in the day before. The red of his
pajamas mixed with the blue of his sheets, creating a bruise-like shade of
purple!
I really tried to let him play and just be a little boy, but it was hard. I
nearly lost it when I found him sliding down a pile of ag lime with the other
kids. All that fine powder and his recovering lungs. I bathed him as fast as I
could and watched him closely, expecting him to start gasping any second, ready
to grab the Albuterol. Another day, I found him playing outside and noticed
light grayish-blue coloring around his eyes and mouth. I grabbed him in a panic
and looked at him, checking closely for the signs of respiratory distress I’d
memorized. Grant walked up and casually said “That’s blue chalk. We were
pretending to be Indians.” OK. Exhale. Release death grip. Wait for blood
pressure to return to normal. Apparently Grant has a bright future as a make-up
artist.
The picture I managed to take after recovering from my panic.
Note the blue coloring around his eyes, nose and mouth.
In spite of all my worrying, he was thriving and growing and staying healthy.
But I felt fundamentally changed. For the first time ever, I got teary when I
changed out his summer and winter clothes; out with the 3Ts, in with the 4Ts.
Reminders that, not only was he still with us … but growing. I watched as he ran
out to hug Grandma and Grandpa when they came to celebrate his 4th birthday and
wondered what we would’ve done that day if the unthinkable had happened. All the
milestones, big and little, were packed with emotion and significance now.
And then, finally the answer started to become clear … in one of our very own
kids.
An answer at last.
In October, the weather grew colder and Erica told me about some chest
tightness she’d been having. Hmm. My now-sensitively-tuned Mom Radar lit up, but
there was enough of the old laid-back mom in me still that I was able to reason
through it and try to wait it out. “It’s probably just a cold coming on.” A week
or so later, she mentioned it again, but there was no sign of a cold. I started
looking at her more closely and thinking. She’s always had stuffiness, probably
mild allergies, but been otherwise healthy … except that cough. For a while (a
year? two years?), she’d had a very mild, dry cough. A cough that was always
just so there, that I’d passed it off as habit. She doesn’t even
realize she’s doing it, I thought. Eventually, I’m sure I didn’t even notice it.
But now, I wondered: could it be related to the chest tightness?
Erica and Trent
I called our doctor, feeling slightly paranoid, but he understood my worrying
and had her come in. There were a few things that could cause these symptoms,
and as he named them off one stuck out: asthma. There it was: asthma being
brought up again. Back in the hospital, I’d told the doctors we had no immediate
family history, and with 5 siblings and 30 grandkids on one side of the family,
I felt confident asthma wasn’t a factor in all this. It couldn’t be: asthma was
minor, I thought - little kids wheezing and needing their inhalers for a quick
fix and then they were fine. I’d never heard Trent wheeze, or Erica … and … what
was asthma, really? I had to admit I wasn’t sure, but it wasn’t on my mind at
all. Until Erica. That first doctor visit led to another, which led to a
pulmonary function test. And finally a diagnosis for her chest tightness and
innocent-sounding cough: Asthma. And suddenly, we have a family history.
Exactly one week later on December 4th, Trent and I were at his follow-up
pulmonology appointment, and I was face to face with Dr. Akanli, the doctor who
had done his bronchoscopy that scary day back in August, who had talked to us in
the parent conference room, nervous and grilling us with questions. The one
who’d said he was critical and was sure there was underlying lung disease.
Seeing her and hearing her voice - her distinct accent - brought it all back to
me; it was impossible to keep from shaking.
She was eager to get a thorough report of how he’d been doing, and she
listened carefully and asked several questions. I brought her up to date on
everything, all the follow-up appointments, the testing, the daily breathing
treatments, his fantastic health. Oh and by the way, his 14 year old sister just got
diagnosed with asthma.
As soon as I said this, she nodded, like she somehow knew it was coming.
Then she said: “I am 100% sure Trent has asthma.”
Even though Erica’s diagnosis a week earlier finally made me think of asthma
as a distinct possibility, it was still strange to hear her announce it. I think
I just said “No kidding?” But there it was, finally. That “other thing.” And
ironically, it ended up being something I’d been so convinced was simply a
non-issue. Harmless, I thought. To learn that something as common as asthma
could’ve contributed to what we went through was truly incredible to me.
She went on: “What Trent had that day was a type of asthma called a
Near-Fatal Asthma Attack, triggered by the bacterial pneumonia he had. It is
rare, but it is possible for a person to have a near-fatal asthma attack with no
previous symptoms of asthma.” No previous symptoms.
He had always seemed so healthy to me – that’s what I’d told everybody,
right? - but when life calmed down, and as time went on, I started remembering.
There had been more than one midnight trip to the ER for bouts of croup; the
most recent one happened two months before he got sick. That night, it took two
rounds of breathing treatments to get him calmed down. “This is unusual. I never
have to do this twice,” the therapist had said. Why hadn’t I remembered that
when we were going over his history? Was it a red flag?
Then there was this
picture I found of him I’d put on this very blog:
It gave me a start when I came across it one day. We’d gotten that nebulizer
for Grant’s croup episodes. I had no memory of using it for Trent at such a
young age (he was 6 months old). How could I have forgotten that?! Another red
flag? But, would it have made a difference at the time if I’d remembered? Probably
not, but things like this have shown me how unreliable a person’s memory can be
during a crisis - even a parent's. It's no wonder diagnosing can sometimes be so difficult.
But I was thankful that so many things were coming into focus and finally
making sense. I thought of a conversation with Kelly at the hospital, as I
agonized over what could’ve caused everything and if I could’ve somehow
prevented it. “We don’t know why God has allowed this to happen, but maybe it
was to reveal something about Trent that you didn’t know.” In the end, she was
right, but what I didn’t suspect was that the whole ordeal would also reveal
something about Erica that we didn’t know about. Without Trent’s
illness, how long would I have let the benign coughing go on before something
happened to her? What would the outcome have been? Trent is our “baby”, but
frankly, I don’t want to see any of our kids hooked up to a ventilator in
intensive care, especially if it can be prevented.
But now we know and we’re moving forward and I’m learning and reading, asking
questions and listening to the experts, those who have devoted their careers to
learning about and treating kids and their conditions.
An unexpected treasure.
Trent still has pulmonology appointments every three months. He actually
looks forward to these because of the stickers he gets to pick out and the
friendly doctors and staff, but he especially likes the pulmonary function tests
he does every time now, when he gets to try to blow all the candles out on the computer screen, or blow hard enough to move the computerized
turkey across the finish line (his favorite ;-).
The doctor’s office is attached to the same hospital he stayed in, so after a
recent appointment we visited the intensive care unit. By God’s providence, Dr.
Williams, the very doctor who worked on him so expertly that first day, was
working. When he spotted us he came walking up with a smile. The nurse assigned
to Trent on his final day in intensive care was there, too – the one who helped
him walk for the first time after coming out of sedation. And Roger, one of the
respiratory therapists who worked with him, came by. I caught them up on how he
was doing and they smiled while they watched Trent hop around and talk excitedly
about little boy things.
When I asked if I could get a picture, Dr. Williams smiled a little and said
“Sure, but I don’t know why you’d want a picture of me.” I wanted to yell
“What?! Do you all realize what rock stars you are?!!” but I kept it
together and took just one picture that turned out well, in spite of my
excitement:
To us, this picture is a treasure: a perfect cross-section of the doctors,
nurses and respiratory therapists who worked so hard and so well with our little
boy. After coming through something like this, there’s an overwhelming feeling
of gratitude to those who had a hand in his care, for each person who encouraged
us, supported us, and demonstrated their devotion to getting him better – from
the specialists, to the sweet cleaning lady who left a handwritten note of love
in his room. Gifts to these people - thank you cards, pictures, homemade treats
… all of these seem so inadequate. Instead, I think their greatest thanks comes from knowing they had a role in preserving a young boy’s life. A life which
we are excited and thankful to watch unfold.
Our very own insurance company sent us this today:
This was printed inside the “invitation.” Please note the question at the top:
Really? You DO have our stats, right Marketing Department? Remember us – the Worley family? Who needs three insurance cards to fit all the kids’ names?
Don’t you know that we already have our hands full, and we know what causes that, and yes, they’re all ours, and no, we’re not trying for a basketball, soccer, football or hockey team?
And this, just 2 weeks after my 46th birthday and Mick is already into his second half century of life (now that sounds old!) :-D.
Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think we’ll be signing up for your Maternity Management Service.
P.S. I showed this Mick when he got home and his response was a weak “Heh.”
“Claire, I’m taking you to the auditions for Butler Ballet’s Nutcracker this Saturday.”
“OK,” she said happily.
That girl’s always game for anything, I thought.
“You too, Brooke. You’re in the age range and I think you’re under 5 feet tall.”
“Uh … I don’t think I want to,” said Brooke.
“Me either,” echoed Younger Sister.
… yeah, game for anything … unless Big Sister doesn’t want to do it.
I hesitated. Out of all of our kids, Brooke is the most shy and quiet. She’s content to stay in the background and, at the age of 11, quite self-conscious. Even around our own dinner table, her cheeks start glowing if the noise dies down while she’s talking. Thankfully for her, this doesn’t happen often.
As parents, Mick and I aren’t cemented in our personalities, but he tends to be the one pushing the kids and I’m more likely to give them a break. If it’s something I feel very strongly about, I’ll persevere, but in general, if it doesn’t have long-term negative consequences, I won’t be demanding on an issue. I try to consider their individual personalities, passions and quirks when trying to decide how best to handle a situation.
My first instinct was to go along with her. But then I remembered my conversation with Rachel. Rachel, who used to hold the title as the shyest, quietest Worley Kid. Who, at 13 and 14 years old battled nervousness weekly to the point of getting physically sick before playing at our small church. “You don’t have to do this; Pastor Mark will understand,” I told her on the way to church, while she kept her eyes shut and her pale face resting in the open car window. “She’ll be fine; it’s good for her,” Mick said.
And it turns out, it was good for her. The other day, after she finished her first full week at Butler, she said “I don’t know what I’d be doing with my life right now if it weren’t for piano camp and the competitions. I’m so glad I did that, even though it was so hard.”
There were also those other Worley girls I wrote about once who stepped into a new, demanding situation, pushed themselves and were better for the experience.
But those daughters were older and had different temperaments. What to do with this child? Push or give in?
I decided to take a chance and give her a nudge. So, I talked about all the reasons why trying out was a good idea and how it would be fun and no pressure, because these people would be working with young kids, and it would probably be just simple stretches and positions (I didn’t let on that these were just guesses - what did I know?). And because stubbornness is not one of her qualities, we found ourselves at Lilly Hall on Saturday, along with lots of other little Nutcracker hopefuls with numbers pinned to their leotards.
When we got there, our girls were very nervous and uneasy. They pressed themselves back against the wall in the crowded lobby and just watched everybody, not even wanting to stretch out. Meanwhile, I filled out their forms and then spotted a friend nearby whose daughter was auditioning and chatted with her, giving them some time to try to relax a little and get used to the place. Eventually though, I had to convince them that they needed to stretch out a little. So they finally did a little warming up, and then it was time.
When Brooke’s group was called, I squeezed around a window with a bunch of other nervous parents, taking in the scene. The audition room was huge and mirror-lined. There was a long table in front where several serious-looking ballet-types sat watching the girls over their glasses, with notepads and pencils ready. Some Butler Ballet dancers were there also, gracefully demonstrating the combinations for the young dancers. The kids had been separated into groups according to height and Brooke was one of the taller girls, so she ended up in a class with dancers who seemed to be at least her age but mostly older.
I watched as Brooke’s group tried out the first combination. I could see her clearly in the front row, looking beautiful even as she struggled a bit to keep up with the sashays, piquè turns and leaps, which came in quick succession. She had an unsure look and a shy, self-conscious smile on her face as she glanced up at the judges. My heart went out to her and for the first time, I wondered if I’d been wrong in encouraging her to do this. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else than in that room, trying to get unfamiliar, difficult ballet combinations right in a room full of other dancers watching and ballet instructors critiquing her. The group went through the combinations several times, and each time, she seemed more sure of herself, but as soon as she was catching on, the next group came forward. The audition lasted quite a while – far longer than Claire’s – and it was probably an hour and a half before she came out in a sea of black leotards. They’d told the dancers they would be contacting everybody in a few days, so we headed out to the car.
As she climbed into the back seat, she surprised me with this: “That was SO FUN! I want to do it again next year!” What? Really?! Fun? Next year? And then she excitedly went over everything that happened, even talking about her nervousness and how she missed a few of the steps because she was trying so hard to learn them quickly. But overall, she seemed excited and energized by doing something that was so different and challenging from anything she’d done before. We decided to get some ice cream to celebrate, and while I listened to her, I silently wondered how she would handle it if she wasn’t picked. She got quiet for a minute and then, as if reading my thoughts, said “It doesn’t really matter if I make it or not, it was a good experience for me.” Yes, that. THAT was how I hoped she’d feel about the whole thing. For sure, to see our girls dancing on the Clowe’s Hall stage would be so amazing, but for Brooke, just making it through the audition was enough this year. And so it was enough for me, too.
I don’t yet know the end of this story - we’re supposed to find out this week if either girl made it - but as far as I’m concerned, the audition was a success: Brooke did it! She stepped up, took a chance, and in the process found a bit of confidence that has become a part of who she is.
Maine midwife Martha Ballard (1735-1812) kept a diary. She wrote on loose paper with a quill pen and homemade ink … daily … for 27 years! I have a laptop, fast typing skills, modern conveniences … and I’m averaging about one blog post per month this year. Her entries were typically much more brief than mine, though, and she didn’t have photos to mess with. So there.
Author Laurel Thatcher Ulrich spent 8 years studying Martha’s diary, along with numerous other period writings and has put together a very interesting account of New England life, connecting the dots of Martha’s brief entries with the political, social, medical events of the times.
I have to admit, I’ve had this library book checked out for a very long time. I’ve started and stopped it a couple of times, not getting very far past the Introduction and some of chapter one. I thought about returning it a couple of times, but just kept renewing it because I trust the opinion of the friend who recommended it. She also recommended "A Perfect Storm," "In Cold Blood" and "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks," all of which I liked.
A few weeks ago, I picked up "A Midwife’s Tale" yet again, got through the first chapter and part of the second chapter, and things finally clicked. I began to understand the layout of the book and the author’s goal and also started feeling like I was beginning to know and admire Martha Ballard. I read through the rest of the book pretty quickly and even went back and re-read the Introduction twice. This book had an incredible amount of information and insights that Ulrich presented in a rich and entertaining way; she was very deserving of the Pulitzer Prize she was awarded for her work.
Bonus: there is a PBS series based on the book, so, I’m definitely going to see if I can get a copy of that!
