If Mama's Walls Could Talk . . .

I listened as my child cried in excruciating pain while the nurses tried to start an IV in her little veins. I was helpless! Every cry was more heart wrenching than the first and when they finally got the IV started, I was able to console my child; she was exhausted. Her doctor came in and said that they were checking for viruses and other possible causes of her high fever. He said she was dangerously dehydrated and that the next few hours were critical. As my child lay in the hospital bed, her breathing became laborious and very shallow. As her breathing waned, I watched her doctor perform CPR. I listened in horror as he called out to her, “Come on Christen. Breathe! Breathe!” Once her breathing became normal, the doctor excused himself. Moments later, the Chaplain came in. There was no recognizable attire that told me who he was, but as we exchanged pleasantries, it became obvious. Why was he there though? I didn’t ask for him to come. Then I began wondering if he and the doctor knew something I didn’t know. The chaplain asked if he could pray for us and went on to talk about my daughter and her critical situation. He had obviously been summoned to my daughter’s room and for some reason this made me livid. Surely he wasn’t there because the doctors felt that she wouldn’t make a full recovery? I was combative and insisted that I didn’t need or want his prayers. Who refuses prayers? I tried because I felt that saying those prayers would make things so final, sort of like reading a person’s last rites and I wasn’t going to believe that God had given me this child with the plans of taking her away. My mom was there and gave the go ahead for the Chaplain to pray. As he said his prayer, I was saying my own, asking God, who I knew was a good and merciful God, to please help my baby. As night became morning, my baby girl was stable enough to be moved to an Atlanta Children’s Hospital. We stayed there for two weeks as my child underwent numerous tests. Surprisingly, her dad stayed with us. He’d leave in the mornings for work and return in the evening. There were few things I could do for my baby girl, and I insisted on doing those few things. I couldn’t hold her because of the IV and feeding tubes. The nurses had no other purpose but to administer medicines and tests. I did everything else. I washed her little body and changed her diapers. I sang to her and talked to her just as I would have if we had been at home. One night as I was being told that things weren’t looking so good for my baby, I told the duty nurse that I wanted my baby to sleep with me in the cot that had been placed in her room. As adamant as the nurse was that my decision wasn’t a good one, I was more adamant and insisted that if this was going to be the night that my baby took her last breath, she’d do it in my arms. I signed a waiver releasing the hospital from any responsibility and put my child in my bed for what I was afraid would be the last time. If I learned one thing, it was that God gives us authority to heal and speak life into every situation. I knew that God’s will would be done and that I needed Him to help me with whatever was about to happen. Even as I did this, I was pleading for the blood of Jesus to cover her as I placed my hands on my sweet baby girl declaring and decreeing that no weapon formed would prosper. Thankfully, we both made it through that dreadful night and although we had many, many more instances such as this one, we were finally given the cause of her illness. It was Acid Reflux. It took six months for doctors to figure this one out. During those six months, my baby would scream and pull her hair because of the excruciating pain. She had projectile vomiting and with that came the dehydration and lethargy. My daughter underwent so many tests to find the origin and cause of her suspected virus. Every time she was hospitalized, a meningitis test was performed. Nothing prepared me for watching doctors bend my baby almost in half in an effort to test her spine for this fatal virus. The tests were necessary to rule out meningitis and I was so relieved each time the results were negative. Her final diagnosis of Acid Reflux was welcoming. Knowing that she would recover fully with a change to her diet and the medications prescribed was music to my ears. Since my husband and I had endured our child’s illness together, I thought we had grown closer and that our marriage could survive anything. We still lived apart even after I brought our baby home from what was to be her last hospital stay. We never talked about reuniting but I was hopeful. However, what came next was totally unexpected. At one appointment, he met me at the doctor’s office but he wasn’t alone. He came with a female. He said that she’d given him a ride. That was it and I believed him...