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When Tragedy Strikes

Posted Oct 26 2011 7:01pm
Yesterday I shared about my visit to the ER courtesy of my beloved 3-year-old, Josiah.  I wanted to share the second part of that story, an encounter that was seared into my heart and mind and I'm afraid has scarred me for life.  

As I shared in my previous post, after they did the EKG and drew my blood, there was nothing to do but wait.  It was quiet, so they put me in the main trauma room where I was enjoying hum of the florescent lights and my oxygen mask.  Things suddenly became very urgent.  The doctors and nurses were all speaking in hushed tones and scurrying to get things ready.  

I can only describe what I heard next, which made it all the more terrifying: a hysterical family came bursting int the doors with what sounded like a puppy whelping uncontrollably.  I could hear young children crying, the doctors calmly but firmly calling for everything "stat" and what I gathered was a hysterical mother.  As I listened, the picture came into focus: a 14-month old baby boy being tickled by his brother and sister, rolled off the bed and hit the floor.  He didn't fall very far, but he immediately began having seizures, so they called 911 and had an ambulance bring the child in.  The helpless cries that I had been hearing were that of this little boy.
A police officer entered and provided the doctors with new information that he just obtained from the scene; that one of the siblings confessed that the baby "might have hit his head on the bannister" as he fell.  This meant they could now looking at a serious C-spine injury.  The mother kept, calling his name in an effort to calm him, but the baby continues to seize untrollably.  The sound was indescribable.  Unimaginable.  Just awful.  I wept quietly yet uncontrollably as it unfolded literally in front of me.  I instinctively made the connection that this baby was exactly the same age as Asher, and in the blink of an eye he could be paralyzed or killed.
The nurse came in and said, "we're gonna move you to give them more room."  As they wheeled me out, I saw a team of 6-7 doctors and nurses working feverishly on the the baby boy.  All I could see was his two little legs as he continued to wretch in pain.  They noticed I was upset, so I explained that I had a 14-month old boy, too.  She said, "that's the worst part of this job."
I'll never know what happend to Baby Carter.  My optimism compels me to believe that he is recuperating and doing well.  All I can do is pray:  for Baby Carter, for his family, and for his siblings who had to watching their brother suffer.  When tragedy strikes, you can't make sense of it; you just have to rest in the fact that God's in control of it.
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