At last we are allowed to see her. They prepare us for what we will see - tubes all over her body, a machine breathing for her, vomit in her hair. I'm still unprepared. I gasp at her lifeless body, at all the technology surrounding her. We sit. We speak to her. We wait. She's deeply sedated, but occasionally her body seizes, shoulders locking upward, toes curling downward, head back. I panic. I tell the doctors, its happening again. They up the medication. She's calm for 30 minutes. It happens again. They up the medication. The doctor tells me they need to transfer her to a pediatric hospital. I'm asked to sign a form granting my permission. What the fuck. Do I have options here? What rights am I signing away? What if I say no? I sign where I'm asked to sign. I don't read. I have no choices. I can't think clearly. I just need her to be ok.
The doctor tells me he needs to induce a medical coma because her body won't stop seizing. I'm so frightened of all the medicines. I'm crying again. I'm stunned. How did we get here? What is happening? I ask her dad these questions. He has no answers.
J has been a pillar of strength. He hasn't cried. He has been by my side silently, observing, listening, comforting with a small hand on my arm, my back. I tell him he can go home with someone, maybe he should. He refuses to leave. He wants to be here. Needs to be here.
She's in a coma. The ambulance arrives to transport her to the pediatric hospital. I ride in the front. We go to another emergency room. It will be the darkest night of my life.
1 comment:
I came here from The Exception. I read your posts about the accident with tears in my eyes. This is real and it's very parent's nightmare. I wish you didn't have to live it.
I send my prayers to all of you, especially your daughter. May she recover soon. Remember she's young and, from what you've said about her, I get the sense she's a fighter. Keep talking to her and touching her.
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