1. The Truth
The machines whoosh in a loud, rhythmic pattern as they force air in and out of my baby’s crippled little lungs. Sarah looks tiny and fragile under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room. She is ten years old but only weighs about fifty pounds and stands the height of a seven-year-old. Her growth has been severely stunted by her long, painful battle with cystic fibrosis (CF)—a battle to breathe.
I try to speak, and she struggles to hear me. Sarah has been waiting for a double lung transplant for eighteen months. During that long wait, she has lost more than the pieces of her childhood—her ability to hear has been stripped away, too. The same medication that has kept her death at bay has taken her hearing bit by bit.
I shout so she can hear me over the loud, pulsating machines. “Sarah, should we hang all your photos on the door, or do you want some closer to the bed?”
Her sweet face, voice, and little smile are engulfed in a mask that encircles her nose and mouth so completely that it is hard to even hear her speak. “Mommy, I want some of them closer to the bed this time.”
Sarah and I are both trying to focus on decorating her new room instead of on our fear.
“Okay, hon, what about the paper lanterns you made? Should we hang them from the ceiling here, too?” I am smiling.
“Yes, Mommy, I love them.”
Sarah and I have a tradition each night as we lie awake in her hospital bed trying to go to sleep; we pretend we are in Hawaii instead of at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP). We run the air-conditioning on high, and the air gently rocks the paper lanterns on her ceiling like an ocean breeze. We then turn on her Twilight Turtle, which is a baby nursery toy. It creates a blue ripple of waves across the ceiling and plays a sweet song. We lie there and talk about our Hawaiian vacation. Neither of us has been to Hawaii, and we are certainly not there now, but we pretend as she drifts off to sleep. Now we hang the lanterns in her new room as we prepare for yet another night of waiting, hoping, and fearing what will happen next.
While I am the cheerleader, the questioner, the emotional one, Fran is steady, dependable, and quiet. He does not wear his emotions on his sleeve like I do, but don’t let that fool you—he is breaking to pieces on the inside. Today, Fran is focused on our move from 8-South to the pediatric intensive care unit (PICU). He has taken dozens of trips from one floor to the other. When you have lived in the hospital for three months, changing rooms is like moving a child home from college.
Over the last ten years, Fran and I have created a comfortable rhythm for managing life and family while Sarah’s in the hospital. Since her diagnosis at one, she’s been inpatient several times a year for a couple of weeks at a time, every single year. Our family has two modes, “normal” and “hospital” mode. Typically, we are like any other family, our kids have multiple activities and playdates—life’s busy. We shuffle all the usual hubbub of family life around Sarah’s medical needs, which include hours of chest physical therapy and multiple medications. We make it work, putting the kids’ needs first, Fran and I taking whatever is left over—which, incidentally, is not much. When Sarah’s in the hospital, we divide and conquer, which usually means for one, maybe two weeks, Fran handles life at home with our other three kids, while I manage Sarah’s care in the hospital. It gives the kids stability, everyone knows what to expect, but it’s not a very marriage-centered approach. Fran and I live very separate lives during these admissions. I don’t micromanage him, and he doesn’t micromanage me. I could not care less during “hospital” mode if the kids at home eat healthfully or their clothes match. Is their hair combed? I don’t know and frankly don’t care. When Sarah’s in the hospital, I let it go; that’s his job, he’s a great dad, and I don’t get involved. Similarly, I handle most decisions at the hospital alone. Before now, it’s really worked, but this time around’s been harder, longer. I feel lonely and like I am carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders alone here in the hospital. Sarah’s never been this sick before.
We fill this PICU room—our new “home”—with pictures and hang colorful decorations to make it feel homier. Sarah’s bed is draped with pink stuffed pigs, and the walls are adorned with her favorite posters from the Twilight movie series.
Sarah’s new room is dark and dim; it sits on the interior of the hospital, so there is no natural light at all, just a view of the hospital’s atrium. It is depressing.
When you move to a new floor in the hospital, it’s like being readmitted. A flood of doctors and nurses come in and out asking endless questions. But it is Sarah’s team I care about—the lung transplant team. They have stood by her since she was listed for transplant almost eighteen months ago. They are professional and kind, but mostly I love them because I can tell that they, too, care about Sarah and are heartbroken to be watching her slip away as we lose this battle. You can see that it’s personal for them. So, when one of Sarah’s transplant doctors enters the room, we are eager to talk to him.
Fran and I are desperate for even a glimmer of hope or good news. We dig for it in our questions, though the answers have been getting gloomier and gloomier. This doctor, James Kreindler, MD, is a particularly pessimistic guy. Dr. Kreindler is a smart man, good at his job, and so caring and sweet with Sarah, but in all situations, he will always be sure to tell me the worst-case scenario. I guess if I were facing reality at this moment, I would say he is a realist. Our reality sucks, and he is brutally honest about that. Perhaps I call him pessimistic to shield myself.
At this point, most of our conversations about Sarah do not happen in front of her, so the three of us step out into the hall. I can feel my hands start to sweat and shake. There is a white-hot knot in my stomach, and we begin today’s round of questioning.
My voice trembles as I try to speak. “Well, the one good thing, at least, is that her lung allocation score [LAS] is increasing, so even though we are in the intensive care unit, we are getting closer to ‘the call,’” I say nervously, trying to add my silver lining to our situation while suppressing the tears.
Dr. Kreindler’s brow wrinkles with a confused expression, and I think, Oh, geez, here it comes.
He looks at me quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“She is sicker. All her blood work looks worse. So, her LAS score will reflect that,” I say defensively.
“But Sarah’s LAS score doesn’t matter because she’s under twelve,” he declares.
In my mind, I am screaming, What? But I try to muster something more intelligent and articulate than that. “Well, I know her LAS does not matter for pediatric lungs, but she is listed for adult lungs now, too, and it matters for adult lungs,” I say emphatically.
“No, it doesn’t matter for adult lungs either since she is under twelve,” he says. He is infuriating me. Why, in this moment, is he trying to take away my last hope? And he is wrong. I am certain of it. I refuse to believe him. I want to scream, “Stop saying this to me. Stop! You are wrong, so, so wrong!” Instead, I say, “What are you talking about?”
I can feel my eyes stinging with the burning of the tears I am trying to hold back. I know I am right. For weeks, months even, I have made sure that with each worsening in her lung function and blood work, Sarah’s LAS has increased accordingly; I have borderline harassed her nurse practitioner, Katie Oshrine, ARNP, about it.
“Sarah is under twelve. She is on the under-twelve list, which means it is primarily time accrued,” he explains. “When she lists for adult lungs, she only receives them after all adults in the region, regardless of LAS, turn them down first.”
“Then why would she have an LAS at all?” I ask, annoyed and knowing in my heart that Dr. Kreindler is as wrong as can be.
“Everyone has an LAS. All kids under twelve do. It’s just meaningless,” he explains.
Oh, this man. Why can’t he let me have this one thing? I am about to burst into tears, and I don’t want to do it in the hallway in front of everyone. So, I end the conversation and return quickly to Sarah’s hospital room. I try to swipe the tears from my eyes and put Dr. Kreindler’s words to the back of my mind. I decide that I will email Sarah’s nurse practitioner and get to the bottom of things. In the meantime, I must return to “mommy mode.” There is nothing worse for Sarah emotionally than seeing me upset; it sets her on edge.
Our room is a surprisingly upbeat place, filled with cheerful activity. Despite the dire situation, we are constantly playing games, doing crafts, and watching movies. Sarah loves to sing; she even makes up her own songs and talks about being onstage someday. She wants to be famous, as a lot of ten-year-old girls do. She has a sweet, young nature about her, very innocent in most ways, but at the same time, she is wise way beyond her years. Sarah is all too aware of the seriousness of her situation even though Fran and I have tried to shield her from it. She is like her mom, happy to put it in the back of her mind, locked away tight.
Tonight, it is me, Fran, and my sister Sharon playing another rousing game of Monopoly. Monopoly is Sarah’s favorite game and a nightly request. She has her own figurine, a little metal three-legged pig, as her character. It was a gift from her cousin Maggie, and it holds special meaning for her. The first reason is because it’s a pig, and anyone who knows Sarah knows she loves pigs. Second, it is a three-legged pig, and though you would expect it to fall, it doesn’t—it remains standing. It feels symbolic of Sarah and her will to overcome CF. She has asked that I tape this pig to her hand when she goes into the operating room for her new lungs.
Sarah requires each player to take an oath on beginning the game. You must raise your right hand and say, “I do solemnly swear to stay and finish this game of Monopoly until its completion.” We never complete a game, but everyone in the room knows that we will continue until Sarah falls asleep. This usually happens past midnight. Tonight, it is sooner, which is good. I am emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed. It has been a full day with a lot of heartache.
Fran (Daddy)
Moving. Fun adventure, right? We have been living in the hospital for about three months now, and we have collected more “stuff” than we ever have on any trip to the hospital before. Of course, we have never lived here for so long. My job is to take this entire room of memories that Sarah has collected and rebuild it in the new room that we will be moving to.
So, I look around and survey all the stuff we have been collecting for what seems like a lifetime now—the clothes, toys, coffeemaker, wine. As I am contemplating it all, a woman comes in with a red wagon and a few plastic bags. She tells me that if I need more bags, I can get them at the front desk.
I am fine with my job, as it allows me to occupy my mind with something other than the obvious reason we are moving from our comfortable 8-South pulmonary floor to the PICU. On 8-South, Sarah has friends and a whole community, which is great for her. The nurses here are like family, and we have known many of them for years. Her CF friends are inpatient often, and although they can’t be together physically, they can often be found sitting in the doorways of their rooms, gaming on a device.
For me, 8-South has allowed me to fall into a strange and completely unrealistic state of mind, where I believe Sarah eventually will get her lung transplant. It is easy on 8-South to think that Sarah isn’t that sick. If she were, we would be somewhere like the PICU. And now we are moving there. I am fully aware that this is not a good move. I pack up the room and take a dozen or so trips down a few floors with my moving wagon. We settle in and start a fresh game of Monopoly.
* * *
Just hours before Sarah’s move to the PICU, I had my sisters, Lora and Sharon, bring all the kids in to see Sarah. The doctors told us this morning that the day we have been dreading had finally arrived—Sarah needed to move to the PICU because the risk she will crash and need to be intubated is now high. We knew this might be the last chance for her brothers and sister and her cousins to see Sarah for a long time.
Fran and I have three other kids—Sarah’s two brothers, Sean and Finn, and her sister, Ella.
Sean is in first grade and just turned seven. He is an exceptionally gifted child academically, and he is sensitive and emotional. I am trying to manage him from afar—unsuccessfully, I might add. Sean is a mama’s boy, and the separation of the past three months has been more than he can handle. He is pretty much falling apart. The guilt of not being who he needs me to be right now weighs heavily on my heart. I feel I am failing him. Sean is starting to understand the seriousness of the situation. Although we have had many other hospital stays, we have never been away from home this long.
Finn is four years old and in preschool. He has gone from having a full-time, stay-at-home mom his whole life to being in school full-time. He is very easygoing and unfazed by all the changes, at least on the surface. My sister Sharon’s four-year-old and five-year-old boys are his best friends, so he is loving the “extended sleepover” at her house. Finn does not “get” the implications of Sarah’s illness; he is just too young to understand.
Our daughter Ella is a special situation. She is eight. We adopted Ella from Ghana; she came home just seven months ago. She is sweet, kind, and gentle. She has experienced tremendous loss in her life, so it is easy for her to imagine the worst-case scenario. When I told her that Sarah and Mommy needed to move into the hospital until Sarah got new lungs, she tearfully asked, “Is Sarah going to die?”
“No,” I replied emphatically.
“Are you going to send me back to the orphanage?”
Horrified that she would think this, I replied, “Never, ever, baby. You will stay at home with Daddy, and when he can’t be there, you will live with Aunt Sharon and with your brothers and cousins until Sarah is all better.”
She told me courageously that this was OK with her. “I can do that.”
Sharon tells me Ella spends a lot of time bustling around her house, trying to be helpful while Sharon pushes her to just be a child.
My heart is bursting that I can’t be the mommy they all need right now. I am so homesick for my children, my family, my life. It’s a triage approach; Sarah needs me the most right now, so that’s where I stay, but it’s heartbreaking. I do not spend any time questioning this decision—I’m very decisive—but I mourn the loss of everything.
Their visit earlier today was emotionally exhausting in many ways. They came into Sarah’s hospital room one by one at first so they could each have a moment alone with her. They each have what we call “lovies”: special stuffed animals they cherish and sleep with every night. Once a kid picks a lovie, we buy duplicates in case we lose this special friend. Invariably, though, they end up wanting all their lovies with them every night.
Today, they each decided to bring one of their lovies to give to Sarah. They believe their lovies will protect her and comfort her. It was so sweet, beautiful, and heartbreaking all at the same time. One by one, they hugged Sarah, snuggled, talked, and gave her their lovies. The magnitude of this gift was not lost on her. This was the giving of a child’s most prized possession.
After Sarah’s siblings, each of her cousins came in. First, my sister Sharon’s kids who are young like mine—Robby, nine; Jayden, seven; Sawyer, five; and Alex, four—came in. Sweetly, they also had decided to give up their lovies. Sharon’s kids are like siblings to mine and vice versa. We live right next door to each other, and before Sarah’s downward plunge, I was nanny to Sharon’s kids. When they left the room, Sarah had a bed lined with special stuffed animals.
Next, my sister Lora’s kids came in. They are in high school and have always doted on all their little cousins. Gina, eighteen; Maggie, seventeen; and Brian, fifteen, fully grasp that Sarah’s condition is very serious. They had brave faces on and led the “littles” in a party for Sarah. Sarah’s older cousins are mentors to her. They have had a special bond with her from the moment she was born and have always showered her with attention. This morning at Sarah’s party, they led all the kids in singing “You Are My Sunshine” to Sarah. This is Sarah’s song. We began singing it to her when she was just a newborn and later as a comfort for her when she got sick.
Sarah has been planning for transplant for a long time. It has been an anxious wait, and rather than worry about the giant medical obstacles ahead, we have been preparing a party for the day she gets the call that her new lungs have arrived. She has bought “blinky balls”—the type you would find at Fourth of July fireworks events. When we found out this morning that the odds are that Sarah will be intubated and sedated within days (and not awake if we ever get donor lungs), I encouraged her to do the party today (a “pre-transplant party”). We assured her we would buy more supplies for the day she gets the call. “It’s so special that everyone can come today. Let’s have a party now, too.” And so, we threw Sarah the best PICU send-off party we could muster.
Sarah
I am upset and scared to move to the PICU, or as I call it, “the scary floor.” I love 8-South! My nurses, therapists, and child-life specialists dote on me and treat me like their friend; they play board games with me, and we have even created a “wall of fame” for the winners of all the games we have played. The door leading to my bathroom is filled with sticker cards for all the games we have played. I feel safe here. On the scary floor, I know no one. When I move, I have to say good-bye to all my 8-South friends. I cry and beg Mommy to get them to let me stay.
Pa is here. He’s Mommy’s dad and my best friend. I can be myself with Pa. I don’t need to pretend to be strong or brave. I love Pa. He comes every day to sit, play, and snuggle with me. He acts like nothing is different or wrong at all. Even before I moved into the hospital, when I was sick and on oxygen and I couldn’t run and play like other kids, Pa would come every day and support me. Today, he is there when I learn I have to move away, when all of my fear comes out.
Mom, Dad, and I decide to invite my sibs and cousins to the hospital for a party. I love seeing my siblings and cousins, who are basically siblings, too, because we are so close, but I feel like I need to be brave for them. My stomach hurts all the time. I haven’t eaten in a long time. I get all my food through IVs, and I retch and retch all the time. The pain in my stomach is the worst part right now. It’s harder than oxygen and the machines. I just can’t get comfortable anymore.
So, I try very hard not to show my pain, to be brave for all the other kids. I am the oldest of the younger bunch, and I know they are scared. It’s important to me not to frighten them. The celebration is exactly what I need. I am brave for them throughout the whole thing, and this makes me feel proud. I don’t want them to be scared. To me, this is a celebration of what’s to come. I know once I get to the scary floor, I will get my lungs soon. The lungs will be ready once we get to the scary floor.
Copyright © 2018 by Janet Murnaghan
