When you're pregnant you spend so much time trying to play by the rules. Eat healthy and well balanced meals. Take your prenatal vitamins. Don't kill yourself with strenuous exercise. Go to all of your doctor appointments. And the list goes on and on. You do the best you can to create a safe environment for your future child.
Then when that precious baby finally arrives, you spend so much time trying to play by a whole new set of rules. You over analyze the smallest details and aim to be that "perfect" parent daily. Make sure the baby gets the best nutrition possible (except for those exhausting days where you pop mac and cheese in the microwave and hope no one finds out). Make sure the baby is in line with his or her milestones and that you are providing enough stimulation for them. Make sure they feel loved. Every. Single. Day. And of course there is that pesky task of keeping them safe from harm and sickness. And when something does go wrong or should I say when life happens and your baby does get a sniffle or an ear ache, who you choose to take over for you is so very important. When mommy's kisses won't make it all better, you need a pediatrician to come in and make everything okay again.
There have been so many days when I feel I have failed Harlow at keeping her safe and healthy. You see, my daughter Harlow, who was merely 15 months old at the time, became very ill, very quickly. And my living nightmare rapidly followed.
I believe in vaccinating my children. Whether you do or not isn't the point of this story. The reason I say this is because I feel I did everything the correct way, regarding Harlow's health. She received the Flu vaccine and was an extremely vivacious and healthy baby. Until she wasn't. Long story short...my daughter contracted the Flu A and then a secondary opportunist infection jumped on board too. There was nothing I could have done to prevent this. I'm slowly making myself accept and believe that. You can't wrap your kids up in a bubble. They have to get out and get dirty and scrap their knees. Of course I would be right there to kiss those knees, wash them off and apply Hello Kitty bandaids to them, but again, I'm getting off track.
The night my daughter was rushed into the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit, I watched as my whole world slowly turned to black. In the first several hours Harlow's mortality expectancy was 85%. Eighty Five Percent!! Family and friends fled to the hospital to be by our side and cover us in love and support. Many of those faces bring me joy and instant comfort, but none of them could answer my questions or relieve my heart from breaking.
In the hours that continued, I felt like I was in a horrific movie. This couldn't be my life. The baby I wanted for years and was finally given through IVF, wasn't being taken from me. It was as if I was frozen and the world was still going on without me. I couldn't comprehend half of what the specialists were telling me. I would catch words here and there, but as soon as they would say "it's minute to minute on whether she survives" I blocked them out. My ears couldn't take tht kind of information. My heart wouldn't.
Dr Sue Hubbard called my husband and I as soon as she caught word of Harlow's situation. It's amazing that feeling you have when you know someone is concerned for your child and wants to personally get in touch with you. Unfortunately the last thing on my mind was my phone, so her calls went unanswered. The next thing I know, in walks my pediatrician. I assumed she was making rounds. She wasn't. She wasn't even working that day. She came up to the hospital to check on her patient. And to check on us.
I could feel the air rip from her chest when she laid eyes on my baby girl. Harlow had gone into septic shock. She was swollen from head to toe, covered in a rash and had every tube and iv imaginable attached to her frail body. Although Dr Sue is a professional and has to emotionally stay strong during these times, I could see her eyes glaze over. When she looked at me, her gaze was water filled and I knew she knew how bad it truly was. She hugged me and my husband and instantly became our support system.
From that moment on, she became a face I needed to see, so that I could allow myself one second to take a break from my grief.
Whether it was after workouts on her days off or making a pit stop in to visit us after a grueling workday; she was there. Keeping our faith when we were letting it go. Hugging me when I thought I couldn't stand the thought of being touched; but so needed to be. In those weeks of horror, my daughter's pediatrician became my everything.
She became a mother to me. (Even though we all know she's far too young for that role). She picked me up when I was down. She constantly got onto me when I wasn't eating or sleeping. She shared in my pure amazement and joy as Harlow miraculously began to improve. She was there for Harlow. And me.
Pediatricians don't have to do all of that. Her role is to care for my child and this wasn't her specialty, dealing with life threatening septic shock. She didn't have to visit us almost daily. She didn't have to call us from her cell phone, while out of town at a wedding. She didn't have to bring us snacks and goodies. She didn't have to believe that Harlow would get better. She didn't have to wrap us up in her own prayers. She didn't have to. But she did.
I love her for that.
