Were You Really A Bad Parent?

I hear this all the time …

“Don, I was a bad parent because I made so many mistakes.”

Well, you are a better parent than you think.

The fact that you still fret over this and are concerned about your children, no matter their age, means you cared about your kids then, and you still care about them now.

That alone makes you a good parent.

But what about those bad decisions?

Well, in most situations in life, we accept the fact that we will make mistakes – that we are not perfect. However, we expect to be perfect parents - to be flawless in our choices. To have the superhuman power to know and control the outcome of every decision we make. Buy you are not a perfect person -  so stop believing you should be a perfect parent. You aren’t – no one is.

But you are a better parent than you think. You have made many more good decisions than bad ones regarding your children. The problem is that we remember all the bad choices we make because of the consequences they created. And we never expected, nor wanted, those harmful, hurtful, outcomes. We don’t remember the right choices we made for our kids because they produced the good outcomes we were hoping for. Those excellent decisions tend to get erased from memory, but they greatly benefited our children.

Some of those bad decisions you made weren’t even poor decisions. They were right decisions that resulted in adverse outcomes. You make the best decisions you can at the time with the best information you have. You are not all-knowing. You are not perfect. But if you make the choices you think will benefit your kid, you are a good parent.

Of course, there are those tough decisions you make where there is no good alternative – the lesser of two evils. Again, you tend to remember the bad outcome, which is almost assured in this situation, but you forget that you made what you considered the best choice available.

If you care about your children, if you love your children enough to try to make the best decisions for them, then you are a good parent. You are not going to make all the right choices. You are not and were not going to be the perfect parent.

Therefore: STOP SECOND GUESSING EVERY CHOICE YOU MADE AS A PARENT! IF YOU DID THE BEST YOU COULD UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, YOU WERE A GOOD PARENT.

And it’s harmful to beat yourself up over decisions made in the past on things you cannot change. It’s much better to focus your attention on the choices you are making now, which impact things you can change.

Even If Your Decisions Were Good …

“But Don, my children didn’t turn out as planned.”

Well, of course not. Because they seldom do. Although some do miss the mark more than others.

But this is not your fault. 

Parenting is one of the toughest challenges there is because the outcome is so highly uncertain. Parenting is even more complicated than those mathematical equations it takes geniuses months to solve.

The parenting calculation takes at least eighteen years to finish and the equation frequently changes over time. Just about the time you master how to parent a preteen – boom! You must parent a teenager, and your math problem just turned from algebra to calculus.

But you can’t really “solve” this problem, can you? You can put all the right numbers in, do all the right things, and still not get the desired result.

Because your job is not to assure your child’s success in life, it is to prepare your child to have the opportunity for success in life. Because at some point, your children make their own decisions, which are typically different than yours. And they must live with the outcomes.

The choices your children make do not reflect poorly on you, especially if they contradict everything you tried to teach them. If things in your adult children’s life take a terrible turn, you have not failed as a parent; many times, your children just make poor decisions. And again, sometimes they were the right decisions but with a bad outcome.

I have several friends who are great people and were great parents. However, they had children who made extremely poor choices after they became adults. These children even became estranged from these excellent parents for a period, for no logical reason at all. I have other friends whose daughter died of an opioid overdose in her 20’s. Another couple’s son committed suicide. Were they bad parents? No, these are good people, and they were all excellent parents, and none of these outcomes are in any way their fault.

You can do everything - well, almost everything, right - and still not have things turn out well. You can provide as much training as possible for your children to make good choices, but you can’t make those choices for them. Your adult child’s success, or lack of it, is not a reflection of you. 

And good parents will want to continue to parent their adult children because, of course, they are good parents and care about the welfare of their kids no matter their age. But you must resist this temptation. We must at some point, stop parenting and just start advising them. Because it is their choice where to work, where to live, how to raise their kids, etc. Their decisions, not yours. (mothers-in-law – I’m talking to you)

So: STOP BLAMING YOURSELF FOR THE CHOICES YOUR ADULT CHILDREN MAKE! IT IS THEIR CHOICES, NOT YOURS. SO, STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!

You are a better parent than you think. And if you cared about your children and tried to provide for and train them as best you could, you were/are a good parent.

The Epilogue – The Allison Chronicles – Part 6

After her surgery, Allison returned to the ICU and stayed there for two more weeks to recover. But she was now closer to the door, closer to coming home.

During this time, we had a meeting with the neurologist to review her condition. The doctor knew it was going to be a trying meeting for all of us, so he decided to give us the good news up front.

"We think she can see!" he says with enthusiasm.   

"What?" I blurt out.

This was my typical reaction since day one of this ordeal. Someone unexpectedly gives me horrible news that I can’t believe. In this case, the doctor thought I was doubting him.

"No, we think she can see. The nurses say her eyes are following their movements," he explained.

He then whips out her brain scan and proceeds to point out all the problems. I glance down at the image, but then raise my eyes and study his expressions. I may not be able to read a brain scan, but I can read the face of someone who must deliver horrible news to a young couple about their infant daughter.

It was all bad news. The brain damage was extensive. I learned more about the functions of the human brain that day than I ever wanted to. The vision success was the only good news, and the doctor was truly surprised by that because of the damage to Allison's optic nerve.

We brought Allison home a couple of days before Thanksgiving. It was the best Thanksgiving ever because there was so much to be thankful for.

And so, the task of raising Allison Ake began. However, if you remember, there was a promise made the day after she was born, when I was driving that strenuous half-mile to the children’s hospital to see her:

"God, if you let her live, I promise I will raise her the best that I can."

I reiterate: You should never make conditional promises to God. You should never bargain with God. Never. Period.

However, if you find yourself in a dire situation and out of desperation you spontaneously make a conditional promise to God, and if by some bizarre, even miraculous means, God fulfills his part on your bargain, then you had better keep your promise. Period.

So, I began to fulfill my part of the bargain. The doctors had us focus on Allison's mental development, probably because they believed her physical capabilities were limited. They instructed us to read to her regularly, even though she could not comprehend yet. So, I would place her near me and read my newspaper or magazine out loud to her. One time my wife yelled at me when I was reading aloud an article that had some adult content.

But then another chapter in this incredible story started to unfold. Allison began to progress much better than the doctors had told us to expect.  Allison was developing mentally at what seemed like a normal pace, and while there were physical issues, she exhibited decent mobility.  

I questioned her primary care physician about this.  He explained that when a child suffers brain damage at birth, sometimes their body is able to rewire itself and assign some functions to healthy brain cells, cells that typically would not be used for anything. The result is that although Allison has severe brain damage, as the neurologist had shown us, she has only moderate cerebral palsy. 

Raising a child with special needs is challenging. There were numerous operations (including three additional brain surgeries), physical therapy, leg braces, etc. There have been so many important decisions along the way and often these were made with limited information. And sometimes you choose wrong.

My mission was to raise her as well as I could. Allison didn't realize how much she was loved or why she was loved, but she surely knew she was loved. And I poured so much of myself into her. The result of that effort is that when my co-workers would meet my young daughter, they wouldn't say, "She's a lot like you," they would say, "She’s your clone.” However, having someone copy all your bad traits is a humbling experience.  One time when she was seven years old, we were discussing something at dinner. I commented to my wife that Allison thinks she knows everything, which resulted in the following exchange:

Allison: “Father, did you just say that I think I know everything?"

Me: “Yes, I did.” (I said sheepishly, thinking I had hurt her feelings)

Allison: “Well, I don’t think that I know everything”. I do know everything!”

I won’t go into much of her adult life in order to respect her privacy. She graduated in four years from a private college with a 3.0 GPA, while not being able to see or read that well due to an inadequate eyeglass prescription that has since been corrected. She ran track as best as she could in high school and runs, yes runs, in 5-K races today. That is difficult to do under normal conditions.  I can’t imagine how that feels with a disability.

Allison has a good job and drives to work. She is a voracious reader, (probably due to being read to so much as a baby). She reads about 60 books a year; her best year she read around 100. We’ve never tested her I.Q. but she is a very intelligent woman.

Raising Allison Ake has been by far the most difficult, challenging job I have had in my life. Being the father of a daughter who at birth was too stubborn to die when she was supposed to, is difficult enough. Throw in the special needs, high intelligence, and some emotional issues and it is frequently mentally exhausting. But raising Allison Ake also has been the most rewarding job I have ever had.

I have pushed Allison hard her entire life, part of the promise to raise her the best that I can. While the doctors had set her expectations low, I have set the expectations high. Sometimes I have pushed her too hard, just as my mother pushed me. And our relationship has suffered as a result.

But life is a trade off. You can’t have it all. And in this case, I will willingly sacrifice that relationship to ensure the advancement of my daughter. That’s the job I pleaded for. That’s the job I have done. Sure, I have made mistakes, but I have no regrets about how I did it.

With Allison, I have had to learn to appreciate what she can do and not agonize over what she can’t. With her, the glass is forever half-full, and my life is richer because of it.

There are still some obstacles for her to overcome. But she is making progress at her pace, not the world’s. This concludes the Allison Chronicles, but her story continues ….

I Will Fear No Evil – The Allison Chronicles – Part 5

In Review: My two-week-old daughter is in critical condition after suffering a brain hemorrhage at birth. She needed a reading of 300 mg/dL on a vital test in order to receive a lifesaving operation. The last test had registered a reading of 690 which meant there was no time to get down to 300 before she would die. I had been praying for a test result of 300, and my wife has just called to inform me the next test has come in exactly at 300.

The important thing to note is that I am not uniquely blessed here. If I were, I wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. Nor do I possess any type of special faith. This is evident when my wife tells me the reading is 300. My first reaction, my very first reaction, is to ask, “Did the doctor say how that happened?” The question perturbs my wife. “No, they didn’t say anything”, she snaps back.

Because she doesn’t care how it happened, it’s just wonderful news. And the

doctor doesn’t care how it happened, he just knows he has been given the opportunity to save a life that he thought was lost. 

But my wife had not been praying specifically for 300, and the doctor had not been expecting 300. I had been the one praying for 300, and I had been the one who knew that achieving 300 was not possible because it was impossible for the reading to drop from 690 to 300 in two days. Oh, I needed to know how this happened.

I must conclude that the laws of physical nature have been superseded, and I guess, that might be a different way of defining a miracle. Given the information, I do not believe the thick fluid started draining out of her brain at an increased rate. This means the fluid did not gradually dilute from 690 mg/dL to 300 over two days; it had to have changed in an instant. And there are examples in The Book dealing with the instant transformation of fluids, including water into wine, and the cleansing of a woman with an “issue of blood”, which interestingly occurs is the Jarius narrative mentioned in Part 1.

Now, if you doubt my conclusion, you are forced to come up with various physical explanations of how the test could now be at 300 when it was at 690 two days ago. And that’s fine, go right ahead, I will not argue with you. However, do realize that it takes as much faith to believe in whatever explanation you devise as it does to believe that God interceded. And just be careful about what you choose to put your faith in.

I had prayed specifically for 300, and now I am dealing with a result of 300. Consider that it is not 290. It is not 310. It is exactly 300. It is as a precise answer to prayer as you are ever going to get. And again, it is not the result of any great amount of faith. It is literally amazing grace. As some of you have already realized, I made a massive error in my prayer. I should have been praying for a blood thickness of 200 mg/dL, giving the operation a high chance of success, instead of the 300 that I not have, and putting the outcome in doubt.

Now you might think someone who received such a direct answer to prayer would run up and down the street proclaiming the news. Maybe shout it from the rooftops. But I respond to encountering the presence of God, more like Isiah, who declares in The Book “Woe is me. I am doomed”. So I took a step or two back and kept these details secret until now. Regardless, I had no time to proclaim anything because there was emergency surgery scheduled for tomorrow.   

Early Wednesday morning, my wife and I meet with the doctor to discuss the operation. It is delicate; it is risky. Eighteen days ago, I could not even conceive of sitting in that hospital waiting while doctors perform brain surgery on my infant daughter. Yes, I’m nervous. Yes, I’m anxious. And yes, it is physically and mentally draining. But there is one emotion missing now that had been engulfing me this entire time.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.

The shadow of death is still there. The evil is still there. But the fear is gone.

You see the keyword in that passage is not death, nor fear, nor evil. The only word that means anything here is through. The statement of faith David is making is that he is going to make it through this. This is going to be a brutal walk. There is going to be incredible pain. Evil is present everywhere. But he is walking through it. No matter what happens in that valley, he is expecting to climb out of it on the other side.  

And this is a process. When you enter this dark valley, you are more afraid than you have ever been in your life. But at some point, in this perilous walk, you are forced to stare the evil in the face. And then you have a choice, you can either cower in fear or choose to walk on by faith. Faith may really be the opposite of fear. You emerge from the valley of the shadow of death a much different person than when you entered.

I matured as a man more in those eighteen days that in any other time in my life. It is literally a defining moment, in that I was shaped – defined, if you will. It determined how I view life, how I respond to crises, how I interact with people. Those eighteen days changed who I am forever.

The operation was a complete success, without any near-term complications. I was confident it would be, because Allison had beaten the long odds so many times, I had come to expect it.

And yet the prize for making it over the first three hurdles is this:

#4. If she makes it through all that, she will live with extensive brain damage.

There is no escaping the fact that Allison has significant brain damage, which typically results in severe cerebral palsy.

“Sometime I think it’s a sin. When I feel like I’m winning when I’m losing again.” (Gordon Lightfoot).

Next Time: Beating The Long Odds One More Time – The Epilogue (Part 6).

“300” – The Allison Chronicles – Part 4

Some Notes:

While I have publicly testified about the events presented in this post, I have never revealed all the details (especially the one significant detail) to anyone in 35 years. Except, of course, to the Reverend John a few weeks ago when discussing whether I should write this post. I know that some people will be critical that I waited this long. Others will be critical that I have presented it now as fact. And that’s fine. I agree with you all. I won’t argue with anyone. But please understand that I never wanted to write this story, and it’s been painful to relive these emotions.

Also, this post is accurate based on the best recollection of the events. I do realize that medical technology and procedures have improved over the past 35 years. If I have made any technical or terminology errors, please message me privately.

Because someone, somewhere, surely needs to hear this …

In review, the doctor delivered the following prognosis the day after Allison was born:

1.    Your daughter probably won’t survive today.

2.    If she survives today, she probably won’t survive tomorrow.

3.    If she survives tomorrow, there is a critical time in two weeks that she will have to get through.

4.    If she makes it through that, she will live with severe brain damage.

We had made it through the first two hurdles fine. Allison was progressing well, considering the circumstances. I started to feel much better, and was hopeful.

But it was a false hope.

The doctor didn’t explain the complexities Allison would face at the two-week juncture because you are not expected even to get that far. And I didn’t ask about it because I was overwhelmed by the immediate danger. But the doctor didn’t say there “may” be a critical time. He said “is,” and almost two weeks had passed and now the cold reality was explained in very stark terms.

The cerebral hemorrhage Allison suffered causes the brain fluid to thicken. She will need a shunt inserted into her brain, the same type used for hydrocephalus patients, to drain out the contaminated fluid. If the fluid isn’t drained, pressure builds up in the brain, leading to a slow, painful death.

However, the doctor wants the thickness of the brain fluid to be at 200 mg/dL for this operation to have a good chance of success; he won’t even operate if the reading is above 300. If the fluid is above 300 mg/dL, you are caught in a literal deathtrap: An operation is needed to drain the thick fluid out of the brain, but the fluid is too thick to allow the operation. The body does generate new fluid every day and drains out what old fluid it can. So, the doctor will run an initial test to see how thick Allison’s fluid is and then run tests every other day to chart her progress.

On Thursday, they run the first test, and our family and friends begin praying that Allison will be able to have the operation that could save her life. My prayer is a little different than that, however. I am analytical by nature, and the Baptists instruct you to pray very specifically. I pray that the test will be at 300. This is prayed without ceasing. It is prayer fervently and repeatedly.  Over and over - 300, 300, 300, 300.

The first fluid is drawn on Thursday, and on Friday, we learn her fluid is at a reading of 720. This is not good news. 720 is a long way from 300, but it is only one data point. I don’t know how fast this fluid is draining until I get a second reading. But I do know we are running out of time. I continue to pray – 300, 300, 300, 300.

They draw more fluid on Saturday.  We wait anxiously Sunday for the test results. The phone rings just before 7 p.m. My wife takes the call, then turns to me and says, “The test came in at 690.”

Instantly, I realize the literal gravity of the situation. Now I have a second data point, but there is nothing to analyze. You can do the math without a calculator. The fluid thickness had only gone down 30 points in two days. It needs to go down another 390 points. At this rate, it would take 26 more days to reach 300, and I’m not sure she has another 24 hours. 

It is over. It is so over. There had always been that flicker of hope – that tiny candle burning in the night. But now even that light had been extinguished. There was only darkness. Even the shadow in this valley of death is now covered by the night. I am once again devastated.

“I’m going for a walk,” I blurt out, as I grab my coat and bolt out the door.

I am walking as fast as I can, yet I am not going anywhere. This is the only way to deal with the overwhelming rage. Of course, I was angry over my situation, but I had not at the time to deal with it because there was too much other stuff happening. This enormous fury had just built up inside of me and now it was being unleashed all at once. I am so enraged I can’t think straight. It hurts so much I cry for the first time in this trial. I’m glad it’s dark because so people can’t see how distressed I am.

I turn back for home after about a mile because if I don’t, I’m not sure how far I might end up walking. At that point, I have burned off most of the raw emotion and begin to think clearly again. But I am still enraged at everyone and everything, and especially at God. We had made it through long odds, and now after going through two weeks of hell, this was going to end with her slow, painful death. That is unacceptable to me. So, if prayer is loosely defined as “communicating with God,” then I guess I said a prayer.

I’ve have been brutally transparent to this point, but the contents of this prayer will remain between God and me. It is my worst prayer I have ever offered, but if God values our honesty, then it is also my best.

I am about three minutes from home when I finish telling God exactly how I feel. And suddenly, I am at peace. But not your typical peace. The peace The Book talks about that surpasses all human attempts to understand it. And this is a surprise. For the first time in two weeks, I am back in control of my emotions. I am willing to accept the inevitable no matter how painful it will be. There would be no more prayers for “300”.

That evening I start thinking about life beyond this horrible event:

What will the funeral be like?

How long will it take my wife and I to recover from this?

Will our marriage even survive this tragedy?

I go to work the next morning knowing there is a good chance my phone will ring sometime this week, and the struggle will be over. Of course, this is before the days of cellphones, so every time my office phone rings on Monday, I hold my breath before answering and then exhale when it turns out to be a dealer or salesperson on the line. It is a variation of Russian roulette played with a phone instead of a gun. This was going to be a brutal week, not knowing when that critical call would arrive.

But I didn’t have to wait long. Around 9:45 Tuesday morning, my wife calls.  Instinctively, I grab the edge of my desk with my right hand, bow my head, and close my eyes, bracing for the worst. However, my wife is calling to tell me the results of the Monday test. I had forgotten that they were even drawing more fluid. Why even bother? We were 390 points away from 300, more than double. More bad news would just add to the torture.

However, my wife is talking so fast that I can’t make out what she is saying. I ask her to slow down and repeat it. This time I can clearly hear her words, but I can’t comprehend what I just heard. I ask her to repeat it one more time. “The test came in at 300”, she says, slightly irritated at having to deliver the message a third time. “She’s scheduled for emergency surgery tomorrow morning.”

After the call ends, I sit there with my head bowed, holding the receiver in my hand, trying to process the inconceivable news I have just received. I am stunned, and I begin to shake (more about this moment in Part 5).

It takes a few minutes for me to regain my composure, and I inform my boss that I will be out of the office on Wednesday. While this is great news, it just means my two-week-old daughter can undergo delicate brain surgery, which has a limited chance of success.

Next, Part 5: (I Will Fear No Evil)

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”

  

The Valley of the Shadow of Death – The Allison Chronicles – Part 2

(Because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this)

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil …

Part 1 Summary – My daughter has suffered a severe cerebral hemorrhage at birth. The next day the doctor gives me the following prognosis:

1.    Your daughter probably won’t survive today.

2.    If she survives today, she probably won’t survive tomorrow.

3.    If she survives tomorrow, there is a critical time in two weeks that she will have to get through.

4.    If she makes it through that, she will live with extensive brain damage.

No Hope

There’s no hope in that statement. I immediately sit down in that hospital family room with my wife and her parents, and no one utters a word. There is really nothing to say, and I am having enough difficulty breathing to be able to speak.

It’s one of those rare moments when you experience a full dose of negative emotions all at the same time. Pain, fear, anger, grief, despair, anguish, heartbreak, anxiety, and panic – lots of panic.

It feels as if my brain is on fire, randomly firing emotional pain and turbulence throughout my body and there is no way to stop it. My emotions rage like a hurricane, spinning out of control.

And there were no prayers, either silent or as a group. Because exactly what do you pray for? There is no hope for your situation. You literally don’t have a prayer. Only pain - lots of pain.

But despite this internal torture, I start to become a father. I begin to think like a father. The fatherly instincts kick in. Fathers protect their children, fathers provide for their children, fathers fix things for their children. Men are wired to take action. But what can I possibly do?

I am reminded of the story in The Book of a man (his name is Jairus) who was told by a doctor that his 12-year-old daughter was going to die. He goes and finds The Man and brings him to his daughter. The story ends with the dead girl being brought back to life. We tend to focus at the miracle at the end of the story and read past the beginning. Here we have a father who loved his daughter so much he risked his job, status and reputation on the sliver of hope he could save his daughter. Without those actions, there is no story – none.

It’s Time To Act

I decide I have to do something – anything. The adrenaline starts pumping and the brain gets focused. It doesn’t matter if this action makes any sense or difference at all. But I will not just sit in that room waiting for my daughter to die. I quickly rise to my feet and announce: “I’m going over to Children’s Hospital to see her.”

And it was an announcement. Everyone in the room is stunned. They all know how I dislike hospitals and avoid them whenever possible. Sometimes I would get nauseous and light-headed when visiting people. Under these dire circumstances no one would expect me to go anywhere near there. This action was completely out of character. But fatherhood changes a man, and in this case, I was maturing by the second.  It was time to step up, even if I didn’t expect to be a father much longer.

But once I made this decision, I was in a raging rush to get to my daughter as fast as possible. I bolt out the hospital and jump in my car. It is one of the most challenging drives of my life. I am delirious, not in control of my emotions or senses. I am in no shape to drive.  Fortunately, the hospitals sit just over a half-mile apart. But, of course, I hit every red light and the tension every time the car is stopped is unbearable. At the first red light, I start hyperventilating and have to lean forward onto the steering wheel, and  totally focus on keeping my foot on the brake.

And it was during this short trip that I offered up the first prayer for my daughter. It was not a good prayer. It’s the type of prayer we should never make. We are never supposed to bargain with The Creator. It is always wrong do that. But I’m delirious, and I’m not thinking about what a righteous, appropriate, holy prayer might sound like. But putting myself into motion gives me that sliver of hope and if you have any hope at all, you’ve got a prayer. So, as flawed and as misguided as is was, it just flowed out:

“God, if you let her live, I promise I will raise her the best that I can”

I get to Children’s Hospital and there are the typical series of delays. I have to show I.D. Then I have to find the ICU. I finally get to the ICU waiting area   and then I still can’t proceed because I have to “prep”. I can still remember vigorously scrubbing my hands with the surgical-grade soap, it felt good to burn up some the nervous energy. I put on a protective gown over my clothes and then wait some more for the nurse to return. I anxiously stand there trying to maintain my composure and just want to burst through that door and see my daughter.

Welcome to the Valley of the Shadow of Death

Finally, the nurse returns and motions for me to enter. It is a large room with rows of over 100 sick babies in isolettes. My anxiety level rises. I start to doubt whether this was a good idea. Everyone of these babies have parents and everyone of these parents are going to hell on earth. It is the most depressing room I have ever encountered.

There is a specific order to where the babies are placed in this room. The patients are initially assigned spots based on the seriousness of their condition and then as they improve, are moved towards the wall by the door. The closer you are to door, the closer you are to leaving the ICU.

The nurse leads me down the side aisle at a good pace. Being in a room of sick babies hits me hard. I begin to realize the gravity of the moment. This is a place of life, and a place of death. And I can see the shadow. I can feel the shadow. I can smell the shadow. Yea, I am walking into the valley of the

shadow of death. 

The nurse keeps walking. All the way down to the last row of isolettes on the far wall. We turn left and she stops. I may have thought I was prepping in that waiting area. But I assure you, there is nothing, absolutely nothing in life, that could have ever prepared me for this.

Welcome to Fatherhood – The Allison Chronicles – Part 1

Because someone, somewhere, needs to hear this…

I’m rewriting this introduction after I finished writing this post. This event happened 35 years ago, and I’m telling the complete story for the first time now. And the reason is, it is exceedingly painful to relive the worst day of your life and its aftermath. It is distressing to re-experience those emotions. What you are about to read is a narrative of my trip through hell. The keyword, though, in all of this, is “through”.

I never wanted to tell this story before, and honestly, I don’t want to do it now. But I have been instructed to, or more like, commanded to. (some of you will understand that last statement) And after writing this first post, I now realize that I do my best writing when I am in great pain. I surmise that maybe this is why many of the great writers were drug addicts or alcoholics.  

This is an extremely personal story. I will reveal details that are uncomfortable to discuss. It will be almost totally transparent. The story is entirely accurate to the best of my recollection. This is important because there is one key moment that will be difficult for you to believe without a great deal of faith. Revealing this part of the story is so troublesome to me that I had to ask my friend Reverend John, the first person outside my family to ever to hear it, if I should include it. He said, “You have to. Because it is a story of hope, and somebody needs to hear it.”

Therefore, I am writing this because I have been instructed to do so, and somebody needs to hear it. I am not doing so to elicit any form of pity. I don’t want you to sympathize. This is about you, not me. The worst emotion you can express to me is pity. Yes, expressing pity towards me is actually worse than disagreeing with me. It’s a personality defect buried deep in my DNA, and probably another reason this story has never been shared before now.

Life is such a complicated existence. You control much of it through the decisions you make. And then there are those random, life-altering events which can impact us more than all the seemingly important choices we can

ever make. And sometimes there is a bitter irony to these circumstances, the type of randomness which would have one of the best days of my entire life, followed by my absolutely worst day ever.

Welcome To Fatherhood

On Saturday morning, my first child was born. We named her Allison. I was in the delivery room but didn’t actually observe much since any mention of blood, or even medical conditions make me extremely queasy. It was an uncomplicated, easy birth with no problems. After spending time with my wife and daughter, I headed home, totally immersed in the euphoria of new fatherhood.

The first indication of trouble was when my wife called that evening to inform me that Allison had been transferred to Akron Children’s Hospital. But this didn’t alarm me at all. During our child-birthing classes, they had told us that babies get transferred to there all the time for minor, routine ailments and not to worry if that happened.

So, I was not concerned. However, I was upset that they did this. It would delay us from bringing Allison home and interfere with my schedule. This is an example of how selfish of a young man I was. This tendency may have eventually destroyed my life. But my perspective on many things, even life itself, was about to change drastically. I just didn’t know it yet.

The next morning, I went to church and received the joyous congratulations of all my friends, still basking in the exhilaration of being a new father. I headed back to the hospital to see my wife right after lunch.

I did think it was odd that my wife was not in her room, but I was still clueless about the severity of the situation. I sat down and waited, watching the Browns game on a 5” hospital television. However, I began to feel uneasy as the minutes passed.

Eventually, a nurse appeared. She seemed surprised to see me. With a blank expression, she said, “Mr. Ake?” (I nod) “Please follow me.”

Before I could ask a question, she spins out of the room, and I have to hurry to catch up. It was about this time that the feeling of impending doom arrived. It would be an extended stay.

She led me to a “family waiting room”, where my wife and her parents were sitting. They are distraught. They uttered greetings and returned to staring at the floor. I knew that my daughter wasn’t dead because no one was crying, but things had to be bad, really, really bad.

When I asked what was wrong, my wife holds up her hand and tells me to wait for the doctor. The answer to the question being too painful for her to even say.

The doctor soon appears and informs me with a straight poker face and no emotion in his voice that my daughter suffered a severe cerebral hemorrhage at birth. He then delivers the following prognosis:

1.    Your daughter probably won’t survive today.

2.    If she survives today, she probably won’t survive tomorrow.

3.    If she survives tomorrow, there is a critical time in two weeks that she will have to get through.

4.    If she makes it through that, she will live with severe brain damage.

There was not much hope in that statement.

Welcome to fatherhood. I hope you enjoy it, because it isn’t going to last very long.

End of Part 1

Next time: Part 2 - The Valley of the Shadow of Death