Meg is Going to Teach Me Things.

In regards to my children, Whitney Paige is described as the sweet, generous, feisty and incredibly loving girl with an old soul. Her disposition is naturally to put others first (except her siblings, but, hey, we aren’t raising a saint) and she constantly aims to please others.   Eli is the sour patch kid—he is the most loving child I have ever seen. When Eli is happy, he is the stuff dreams are made of. And when he is sour--he is very, very sour. 

Then, there is Meg. Hannah (now 17--who is studious, responsible and makes parenting feel easy) best describes our firecracker: “I think that when Meg is older, she and I will go out on the town. I will get home from our night out and sit down and say “WHOA…” Hannah pauses to think, and continues “Meg is going to teach me things.” 

Hannah is correct. Meg is going to teach us things.

Meg has an energy, enthusiasm, a zest for life, tucked under a mischievous grin. She is quick to laugh and squeal, and her tears flow readily when she thinks she is in trouble (she sounds like someone I know very well!). I don’t know what runs through her head but I am certain it’s not all sweetness. She is fun-loving and kind, she is hilarious, and she is shy.

It's somewhere in the space between longing to be an entertainer and an introvert, that I find the most fascinating aspects of Meg.

Most people would describer her as shy:  eyes to the floor around strangers, tucked tightly behind my leg.  Few people really know Meg. Few see it, and fewer still understand that fascinating little layer of her person that lies one onion peel deep.

She is an observer. She is dying to be a stand-up comedian or a creative something. Not the kind that has to be front and center of everything, not the funniest person at the party. But when she is in the spotlight...man, she will shine. Meg is going to teach us things.

There is nothing better than thinking about where the kids will go. Daydreaming about who they will be? What they will become? What life is going to give to them, and what they will give life?

Not too many months ago, Clark and I sat around Denny and Carolyn’s table and tried to answer these questions about our kids. Denny and Carolyn are neighbors and over the past few years have become great friends. Our kids line of up nicely for play-dates which allows us a lot of time together, Whitney Paige is in love (yes, I think really in love) with their son Brian. And Allie is nestled right in between Whitney Paige and Meg in school, so it’s a perfect situation. Eli is a little bit the odd man out, but he doesn’t know that. Brian (when asked/when he and WP are on the outs) is a great older pal for Eli, and Ali recently claimed that Eli is “my prince and he is making me pancakes in the morning.”  (Eli didn’t make Ali pancakes the next morning, but I am pretty sure Eli’s daddy made pancakes for us, so you know….apple and tree.) So-we hang out, and one night made predictions about our kids. 

Whitney Paige and Brian will be on again/off again (this has already come true), Meg and Brian will ultimately get married—causing us turmoil and humor for years to come, etc. etc. At the end of the predictions on kids, our families, our neighborhood, Denny said “someone will have a tragedy. I just think they will.”  I said, and I meant it, “I hate that I always think that. Why do I always think that?” 

I always teeter between life is great, and life is fragile. It is. Whitney Paige was 2-months early, and after a week in the NICU, we brought her home. We were soon to find out that our 4 lbs baby came home too early and we ended up having an incredibly a traumatic experience that lead to us spending another week in the NICU, spinal taps, CT scans, MRIs, etc. Life is fragile, indeed.

As it turns out, WP was perfectly fine and after months and months of fear, no sleep, constant monitoring, Clark and I began to slip back into what would be our parental mode—attentive but not helicoptery parents. But, the fear that comes with watching your heart run around and play in the form of these little children is always cause for nervousness when you stop and think about it.

So, we don't talk about it. It brings back memories, images and pain that I want to tuck away and never experience again.  It’s a piece of our story that I would bury if I could and for 5 ½ of the past 6 years, I have pretty successfully blocked out those emotions--but...

Meg is going to teach us things.

Meg had her tonsils and adenoids removed on December 7^th at 12:30 pm. Very routine, very quick procedure. After a couple hours of recovery, we were home and on the 7-10 day road to recovery.  Meg was a great patient. She didn’t feel great, but, she wasn’t fussy—she wanted, mostly, to be left alone to deal with her pain in her own way. Meg was going to teach me nothing was routine.

The first night of sleep was easy. I woke Meg every 4 hours to give her a dose of either Ibuprofen or Acetaminophen—whichever was due. She woke up the next morning feeling better than the day before and we continued meds and sipping fluids.

At lunch time, Meg asked for chicken noodle soup and salami. There were no food restrictions (which surprised me?) so I gave her the food she requested. As Meg was eating the salami she would take the tiniest of bites, chew it and spit it out. It hurt to swallow, naturally. She did this a few times and then she must have accidentally swallowed a piece and got a little choked on it. She came to me and I patted her on the back and tried to help her cough it up. As she coughed, blood began to come out of her mouth. I tried to convince myself that it wasn't that much blood and we were going to be fine. After 6 hours of monitoring in the ER, they confirmed what I hoped--it was going to be fine and that it wasn't THAT much blood. Meg was going to teach me what a lot of blood was...

We get home, go to sleep and resume our journey to recovery. At 1:00 am, I woke up to give Meg her dose of meds. She was groggy, and not happy that I woke her. She was coughing a bit as I was trying to wake her enough to take her medicine. I began to dispense the medicine and she started to gag. I had a trash can by her bed as she was within the window of nausea and vomiting from anesthesia. For some reason, I woke Clark to help me giver her medicine, which wasn't my normal routine. Meg taught us that God was watching. 

Meg started to throw up, only very quickly I knew the massive amount of fluid wasn’t vomit. It didn’t smell like. It was sticky. It was metallic. I just told Clark, somewhat calmly “this is what happened this afternoon. I will take her to the ER.”

Clark turned on the light and it was then that we realized this was different. The amount of blood is something I have never seen—and something no parent should ever, ever see. Then things fell apart. Meg went limp. I didn’t know why. I thought she aspirated on the blood because she wasn’t completely awake. I never thought about blood loss, though that could have been why. I screamed. Clark screamed.

Meg was about to teach me the surreal experience of watching your world crumble. She was about to teach me the power of trauma in cementing a moment in time in your brain:

911 is on the phone with Clark. He is yelling some combination of these words.  Address. HELP. My Daughter. OH God. She's not breathing. Tonsils out. Blood everywhere. HURRY.

I carried Meg into the bathroom, her limp little body tightly pressed against me, covering me in blood. With every beat of her heart, the blood pulsed out of her. Then it stopped. Did the bleeding stop? Did her heart stop? I don’t know.

“I don’t think she is breathing” I heard Clark say to the dispatch, again.

“Call my parents. Call Carolyn. Or Jenna--no the baby--don't wake up the baby. Call someone. Someone needs to get over here.” I said.

“No. No. No. No. No. No.” I keep screaming in my head, but to Meg I am steady:  “Meggie-girl. Meg, stay with mommy, you are ok, you are ok, you are ok. It’s ok. It’s ok. Mommy’s got you. Mommy is right here. Take a breath. It’s ok baby, you are ok.”

IT IS NOT OK. 

Clark, still on with 911, takes my phone and begins to ruin nights of people we love. To my startled dad he says not much more than “PRAY!!!!!”  And I assume he tells him to come over, but, it may not have been necessary. My parents would arrive about 20 minutes later. I have been thankful, numerous times, for my parents. But this will be one of the top reasons why I am thankful they moved closer to us. I just need them. 

Clark takes my phone to get someone over here faster than my parents can so we can both leave with the ambulance.  Clark gives me the phone after Carolyn has answered.  

“CAROLYN! CAN YOU COME OVER? IT’S MEG. It’s bad. She isn’t breathing. Ambulance is coming, can you come over. Hurry.”

Perfect, calmly Carolyn says “I am already on my way.” 

That is such a Carolyn way of answering a traumatic situation, and I will never forget those words. I had ever really thought about Carolyn's personality this way, but, in retrospect not surprising at all—calm, steady, unwavering. In many ways, my exact opposite. Must be why we get along so well. Meg taught me that there is a different level of friendship than I previously knew. 

Meg is on the kitchen floor. I start to do a rescue breaths. I am not sure if I am supposed. I don’t remember anything I learned in CPR training. 15 breaths, 2 chest compressions. Or is it 15 and 5, 30 and 2? Or do chest compressions keep going the entire time? I don’t know. Shame on me. What mother learns this and forgets it? I lean down and start to place my mouth on hers. The blood—everywhere on my precious baby. I taste the metallic and hesitate for just a second. 

Just as I am about to likely push blood further into my daughters lungs, I hear 911 say “make sure her airway is clear. Lay her on her side."

I do what they say and mentally tear myself apart.  How can you be so stupid? I remember the rules then. ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Blood begins to trickle out again. She takes a gaspy breath. She is breathing. It’s gurgly, weak, but it’s a breath. We are ok….ish.

I look up screaming to 911 “she is breathing. She is breathing.” That’s when I locked eyes on a terrified 6-year old and 4-year old standing in the family room. Blank faces. I tell them, as sternly as I know how “go upstairs. Get in Whitney Paige’s room. Ms. Carolyn is going to be here. Meg will be in an ambulance. It’s ok. Stay upstairs. Mommy will see you in a little while. Do not get out of bed.”

I don’t know what they have seen, or will continue to see. I don’t want them to be scared...Or more scared. 

The first responders arrive. They take over assessing the situation. I realize I am in a tank top and undies. I know they have seen it all. But, not my all…I grab a towel that we have covering our fabric bar stools. I wrap up and frantically run upstairs to grab clothes. When I reflect on the story, this part makes me laugh. Meg is going to teach me to keep a robe next to my bed. 

I throw on the first “outfit” I can find. As I run back down the hall, I see my other sweet children sitting in Whitney Paige’s bed. Staring at me. A fleeting thought about how they have good listening ears, afterall, will make me smile later.  I tell them I love them and I will be home soon and to go back to sleep. I won't seem them again for 48 hours and the damage that has been done to the stained bed linens, and their precious minds, will begin to be eased by Carolyn, my mom and dad. 

Meg is on a stretcher and being wheeled into the cold, snowy night. I run up the hill. Carolyn is running down the hill from where she had to park—way behind every emergency vehicle in our town. A little beacon in the night--a face I know. My home is going to be ok in my absence. She will make sure. I am sorry for the scene she is about to see, though. There is a lot of blood. 

As we pass, I tell her "She is breathing. Thank you.”  I don’t really know what I said, here, but I meant to hug her, or say I love you, or something as big as what I felt. I would tell her later I am sure. 

Once in the ambulance, I get my phone to update my parents. And answer terrified texts from Jenna, next door.

Back to reality. I sit down and watch the monitors of my baby. Oxygen: 80%. Blood Pressure. Heart. Everything is functioning. It’s not great, but it’s functioning. The paramedics suction blood from her throat.

“Take us to Mercy.” One paramedic says to the driver.

In my head, I think. “NO! Take us to Children’s. We have one of the best children’s hospitals in the country, why would you take her to Mercy?”  

And then I think…”What did our benefits manager tell me? Mercy Anderson doesn’t take Anthem. No. No. No. They don’t my insurance. This can't happen.”

In a weak voice, I ask “Can we please just get to Children’s. She needs to be at Children’s.”

Paramedic: “We don’t have time to go to Children’s. We have to stabilize her.”

Me: “I don’t think Mercy ER takes my insurance. I can’t remember. Something was said at work. I made a mental note because this is the ER I would need to go to but we aren’t covered….so, please take her to Children’s”

Paramedic: “You insurance will be fine. We have to go to Mercy. You will go to Children’s after she is stable. They will send critical care transport”

Me: “Ok.”

My mind races again. She isn’t stable? She needs critical care? This is bad. It’s so very, very, very bad. Why am I thinking about insurance? I hate myself again. I held onto Meg and went back to my prayer-begs.

I worried about my insurance several times over the next few hours. I beat myself up about it after, but, then again, I was most likely blocking reality. Filling my brain with mindless things. Afterall, how many times can you beg for your child to not die? I found myself drifting into these stupid thoughts throughout the terrifying night....

Would the blood stains on the floor, and her mattress come out?
Wonder if insurance would pay for 2 ambulance rides and 3 ER visits in one day?
Does the nurse think it's when I walked on the floor without socks and shoes? (In my hurry to leave the house, I didn’t wear socks and happened to put on shoes that hurt my feet) These trivial, irrelevant thoughts must be the only way this broken, a truly, devastatingly broken mother, could get through. 

After being stabilized at Mercy, we were told a chopper was on its way to get us to Childrens. This sent both Clark and I into a tailspin. A chopper? For 14 miles? This is worse than we thought...

I don't really know what happened next--not for lack of memory, but for lack of communication and lack of time being real in the ER. Five minutes feels like 5 hours in the moment, and 5 hours feels like 5 minutes in retrospect.  

At some point, I drifted into thought about the Christmas music that was playing. I don't know what kind of music is right while you pace hallways of an ER, trying to escape your reality, but it's not "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas."  Music cements memories, just as trauma does (I have learned) and I don't want to hear Christmas music and think of this night for the rest of my life. Though, I will.   

A lady approaches us and asks if she can get us anything. I thought she must be a volunteer. How nice. Then she asks if she can pray for us.  

“Yes” Clark answers, that would be great.

She asks our daughter's name and says that she believes in specific prayer and would like to use her name if she can.

“Meg.” We both say and then walk way.

I don’t know what to think about this lady. On one hand, does it hurt to have more people in our court, rooting for us, praying for Meg? No. that doesn’t hurt.

On the other hand, who is she? It’s like an ambulance chaser or something—someone who just has to know what's going on? That’s so weird.

I decide to let it go…I don’t have time to be annoyed with her. I have to worry about our insurance, the weird choice to play Christmas music and anything else I can come up with to avoid looking in on what’s happening behind the curtain.

An hour goes by…we get updates from the doctors and they inform us that the chopper isn’t coming. An ambulance will ultimately take us, without running lights or sirens. We went from being airlifted to a casual drive to Children's? Maybe Meg is more stable than we thought? Maybe the hundreds of prayers from us, family, neighbors and our ambulance chaser prayer-warrior are working? Something has changed in the past hour. (I didn't think about any of these things at the time, I just did what they said and went back to pacing.)

The crazy lady (who isn't a volunteer, she is just waiting on her mother to get a room transfer from the ER) comes back. She stands just a little too close.

My nerves shoot up. I remember worrying that I was going to mean. I am going to say something that I will regret. I am going to make this woman feel terrible for intruding on the worst night of my life. Who are you? Why are you standing here next to us like you belong? Go. Away.

“I’m sorry, this is probably too much…” Crazy Lady

(be nice Lauren, be nice Lauren).

“but, I just have to ask what happened?”

All the things I want to say (they are NOT nice) come rushing to the tip of my lips. I am so incredibly angry. I can’t see straight. "How dare you?" I think. "There are people who love us, who love her,  who don’t even know yet...You don’t have the right to talk to us or ask these questions." I am completely and utterly appalled and then I open my mouth….and niceness comes out.

Clark and I tell her the story. Her eyes are compassionate. I think she really has been praying for Meg for the past hour. She has been praying for us.

As it turns out, we would learn in another 48 hours, crazy lady knows people we know. She posted on Facebook about the situation (I am still thankful our mutual friend didn't wake up to crazy-ladies post before I had called her). Kelly is on the "Call List", directly after my siblings, so there was no chance she would have seen this post on Facebook before I informed here, but thank goodness she didn't wake up to: “I spent last night in the ER praying for a sweet girl named Meg. Pray for her mom and dad, and her twin brother at home.”  Kelly doesn't know any other Meg/Eli twin combos. She would have been in utter shock to read those words. Meg is going to teach me to not post other people's stories on Facebook(I think!)

Anyway, I still have mixed emotions about that. I mean, this is the first time I am blogging this. She shouldn’t have done that. But, then again, when Kelly connected all the dots on the story, it gives me chills. Kelly printed out the chain and there is a list of comments below crazy lady's post. Hundreds of people who don’t know us were thinking of Meg, praying for Meg….It was posted right around the time that plans changed and a chopper wasn’t needed any longer.  Meg taught me it's always best to be nice. You never know who you are being mean to. 

Back to reality, sad, pitiful reality...Meg had a blood transfusion in the ambulance ride to Children's. Meg had an adverse reaction (which is very common) and her fever spiked to 41C. It was a good thing that I didn't convert that, or I would have realized that she was at 106. It was hours after she came down from that, when I realized just how bad it was. 

She received another transfusion at Children's and we were eventually admitted to the ICU, and we left the ER chaos behind. Things are much calmer in the ICU vs. the ER. We still had tons of nurses and doctors, but, it's not frantic. There was a plan to do her surgery at 7 am (which was about an hour away at this point.) The kind nurses wiped the rest of the blood off her body--her face had been cleaned, but, no one had taken the time to clean her yet. Her tummy, legs and toes were all cleaned up. My sweet, fragile, baby. 

She was so tiny. Had she always been so tiny? 

And, then I had a surreal experience in the ICU. Moments before Meg was to go in for surgery to cauterize the artery, I grabbed her “baby” from the bag I packed. I thought to grab this in my haste—her most favorite lovie. I wanted her to have it when she woke up. But, to my dismay, it was covered in blood.  It was an insult to injury moment for me. Moms out there no the lengths we go to secure the lovie of choice for our kids. It goes everywhere, it becomes like another child. WP—Check. Meg—Check. Eli—Check. Water Blankie-Check. Meg’s Bunny Baby-Check. Eli’s Bunny Baby—Check.  4 years of guarding this little satiny bunny head attached to a blanket the size of a sheet of paper, and it’s come to this. Covered in blood. Ruined.

I decided to try and wash it in the bathroom of our unit. It was unlikely--the blood had dried from the past 5-6 hours, but I had to try. The weirdest thing happened. Without even scrubbing, without any effort at all, the blood washed off. I was shocked. Amazed. Relieved. I cried. And cried. This felt like my sign. I don’t know if I believe in signs, but her blood washing off her most prized possession—it made me think of the blood washing off one of my most prized possessions. I held onto this moment, I would cling to it over the next 10 days of fear. I had a wave of peace that Meg was going to be fine.

“Lauren, it’s time to go.” My dad quietly said from outside the bathroom.

I composed myself (it didn’t matter if I was composed—we had been between normal and meltdown continuously for the past 6 hours. No one cared if I was crying) and down to surgery we went with our most prized possession.

At 7:00 am, December 12, Meg went back into surgery to fix the bleeder. My dad prayed with us, an incredibly poignant prayer. He had kept a stoic cover for the past four hours, but this was more than he could handle. It was beautiful—the tears fell. And I felt a sense of peace. This was going to be ok.

I sent out a few group texts to my girlfriends and my friends from work. I have a lot of amazing people who have my back, and thus have Meg’s. I felt so much support and love, and another wave of incredible peace.

It was a shockingly fast procedure—she was already intubated and sedated, so I would say in the time I could get a band-aid off her, the ENT surgeon had found the bleeder and fixed it.  And revisited all the other arteries and re-cauterized them, just in case. We went back to our room to recover. Meg needed sleep to recover--I needed company--and company arrived. Friends and family (and friends that are family) stopped in to hug us, talk to us and love on Meg. 

Meg, it turns out, would be fine. We would be on our way home the next day. And while her issue was incredibly intense for us, after the transfusion fever risk was gone, and the arteries were cauterized, we were just normal "tonsillectomy recovery parents."  Back to 7-10 days of recovery with the same 1 in 100 odds of a bleed, and 1 in 5,000 odds of a hemorrhage requiring a transfusion. 

The sign on the door of the unit next to ours was to celebrate a little boy's 100th day post surgery. I had been through hell and back within 18 hours--I can not imagine 100 days of intensive care. Children's Hospital has a way of granting perspective. 

We would see Carolyn and her family when we got home, complete with cards from the kids in our neighborhood.Jenna would host playdates for the other two kiddos. Kelly would come over and tell us about the connection to the crazy (ish) lady in the Mercy ER and give us flowers, food and toys for Meg. Sarah would drop off food and art supplies that would be used for days to come. Merisa would have a delivery for Meg (and an offer of food, but we were already being over served). My sister would bring food, and smiles. My mom would feed us, spend the night and watch Hallmark Christmas movies with me (and Meg) so I wouldn't have to have an alone night when Clark had to play. Gorilla would have Barbies and arts and crafts sent over. Our neighbors would hug me at the Bengals/Browns game the next day, and I would cry every time I tried to thank them.  

After 10 days of watching her every move, and sleeping with one hand on her always, Meg rebounded back to the same ole Meg we know and love. Her voice is different—more nasal sounding, less raspy (it couldn’t be more beautiful), she doesn’t remember the ambulance (of course), and she eats incredibly cautiously (she thinks she choked and that’s why this all happened). I am different. Meg taught me perspective. 

Meg has taught me that sleeping in a twin sized bed, with 4 year old twins, is a gift, never, ever to be taken for granted.

Meg has taught me that she is loved so deeply, and so strongly, and so are we.

Meg taught me (well reminded me) that she is exceptional--she is the exception to the rule. 

And thanks to so many prayers—our prayers, and the prayers of countless friends, aunts and uncles, grandparents, coworkers were heard…. Meg is going to keep teaching me things.