Fearing The Evil – The Allison Chronicles, Part 3

Please be sure to read Part 1 and Part 2 first … because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this

Summary: My daughter suffers a severe cerebral hemorrhage at birth and is not expected to live more than a day, or maybe two. After getting this horrible news, I go to the children’s hospital to see her.  

I follow the nurse down the aisle to the back walk where the most-critical babies are located. We turn the corner, and in the middle of the row, I see the name “Allison Ake” on the isollete. The nurse keeps walking, but I stop a good five feet away, stunned by what I see.

The nurse turns around and is surprised that I’m still standing in the aisle. She quickly backtracks and asks, “Can I get you anything, Mr. Ake?”

“Yes, I need a glass of water and a chair. Oh, and please bring the chair first.”

I answer her question, but my eyes never leave the isolette. Most fathers delight in seeing their day-old daughter, but I am staring at the most frightening scene of my life. There is my daughter lying in the isollete. Her arms are raised up, firmly against the sides of her head, her fists tightly clenched. Eyes shut, she struggles for every breath, and there are tubes and wires everywhere.

I can’t take another step forward. I’ve stopped instinctively, because I’m in a dangerous situation, like when you get too close to a blazing fire or a ferocious animal. But in those instances, you would back away or even run. And I want to turn and run, but I can’t, because the name on the isolette says “Allison Ake” and that means this one, no matter how damaged, belongs to me.

It is more than a gut-punch. It’s as if a warhead has been fired right through me, removing my gut, but leaving me alive to deal with the pain. I stand there frozen, but inside, my heart is racing as I absorb the stone-cold reality before me.  

The nurse returns with the chair and places it beside the isollete, because of course, I can’t sit in the aisle. I take the four steps forward and slide quickly into the chair as I feel my knees weaken. I sit slumped over, staring at the floor, as the nurse leaves to get my water.

The nurse returns, and I take a gulp. She asks me, “Mr. Ake, do you have any questions?”

Now you would think the obvious question is, “How is she doing?” But even though I have only been a father for just a little over twenty-four hours, I am in full-dad mode.

“What’s wrong with her arms?” I ask. 

“The cerebral hemorrhage your daughter suffered causes intense seizures, she explained. “She put up her arms to fight off the shocks to her brain, and they locked in that position. It’s rare for them to survive seizures that strong, but she did. She’s a fighter.” 

     

I stare at the nurse in disbelief, just as I had when the doctor had given me the prognosis earlier. The nurse returns to her duties. I sip some more water, and the emotions start raging out of control again. I want to scream, but I can’t because that would distract the doctors and nurses doing their jobs in the ICU.

I turn and look at Allison, my face inches from the isolette –

Breathe in … Breathe out … Breathe in … Breathe out

Here, time is measured in breaths, and at the back wall of the ICU, every breath is vital.

I feel some fatherly pride. This tiny, day-old kid had fought off certain death. And it is not surprising that the offspring of two strong-willed, stubborn people had not died when she was supposed to. I vow to stay there with her all night – if she makes to the night.

However, I wasn’t prepared for the intense situations that occur on the back wall of the ICU. The monitoring alarms for the critical babies sound every fifteen minutes or so at random. Every time it is an emergency, life-threatening situation, and six doctors and nurses rush to the isolette to keep the baby alive. As things stabilize, one by one, they leave to tend to the other infants.

It is like sitting in hell on earth. Every time this scene is repeated, it shocks me to my core - not knowing if that baby is going to survive and not knowing if Allison’s alarm will be the next to sound. It is a psychological torture chamber that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

In that environment, I am unable to stay with her all night; I can’t even last for two hours. I take a long look at Allison before I leave. I realize it might be my last look, but I sense I would be coming back. I return to the regular hospital to report back and comfort my wife.

I go home that night to an empty house, feeling much different than when I left nine hours earlier. I am alone and horrified. I lie down in bed terrified, and six hours later, I open my eyes, and I remain just as terrified. I call my wife and am relieved to hear that Allison has made it through day one.

I return to that torture chamber on day two. I still need the chair, but I don’t need the water.

And she’s still breathing …..

Breathe in … Breath out … Breathe in … Breathe out

But it’s still brutal to sit in the ICU again with those monitor alarms going off. I last about the same two hours again.

King David writes in The Book: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

And you don’t grasp the magnitude of those words until you have to take that walk yourself. Because I am surrounded, maybe engulfed, by evil every step that I take. It is ever-present, ever threatening, every second of the day. And David is a much better man than I, for I fear the evil. I fear the evil with every breath I take. I am more afraid than I have ever been in my life.

But Allison does make it through day two. The immediate threat has passed, a huge victory given the dire odds. The next eleven days bring a series of small victories. She lowers her arms to a normal position. She opens her eyes. And her isollete is moved a few rows forward, off of that perilous back wall.

I start to feel much better about the situation. I can breathe normally again at last. I can finally see some light at the end of this dismal tunnel. My hope is rising. And I feel that exhilaration of beating those terrifically long odds - when everyone literally leaves you for dead and yet you survive. We had narrowly dodged two bullets, and I feel bulletproof.

However, if you remember the prognosis, there is a critical point that happens at the two-week juncture. Of course, I forget about all about this part because I have been so focused on the progress she is making day-by-day.

But a third projectile has been fired at Allison. And this shell is not a bullet, but a missile. There will be no dodging this one.

Next: Part 4 – “300”