I can't find words to say it aloud, but I think to myself, My girl likes loud sensory input. Like fireworks. She would probably like the siren.
I'm praying to God to make her better. It takes an eternity to get to the ER. As we back in to the ambulance bay, the driver says to me, "I'm sorry I have to freeze us. I have to roll down the window to see." I tell him it's fine. My senses aren't working anyway. I get out and go around to the back doors. I watch them take our girl out on the stretcher. Brian is with her. I'm still shaking.
Inside, we go to an ER room. The memories are blurred. Tangled. Disjointed. There were papers to sign. It seemed so wrong, to be standing there giving my address and phone number to some stranger to type into the computer.
I find momma in the waiting room. We cry and hug. I tell her how blue Olivia had been.
There are nurses, and IV attempts. There is a chest X-ray and tests for flu and RSV. I had hurt my foot the week before, though I still don't know how, and running through the house had aggravated it terribly. It was throbbing.
I try to put the images and emotions from the morning in the back of my mind so we can focus on helping her now. But, they surface anyway, and I sob often. I call Brian's parents over and over, just getting a busy signal. I finally get Bill, and I tell him what happened. I don't even think to ask him to have Sonjia go be with Jacob. My mind isn't working.
People who know us, who heard the call or who have found out from others, come and go. I cry some more. I pray some more. Olivia is so sick. She has a fever and is just miserable. Brian's shirt has vomit on it. I look in his eyes and ask if he's okay. He says he'll have to deal with everything later. I know what he means. There is no chance right now to really wrap our heads around what happened. Instead, we wait for the doctor.
We makes calls and answer calls. Brian's phone chimes with each text received, and he answers them when he can. I post a quick status update on Facebook at 10:27 a.m.: Please pray. Olivia is fine now, but she stopped breathing this morning. Brian saved her life. At the ER waiting for a room.
We talk about what happened. Brian tells the part of the story that I didn't see. I went upstairs to take a shower, and she vomited again. When he carried her upstairs to tell me that we needed to go to the ER, she was lethargic and acting odd. She was heaving, and by the time he got her back downstairs, her body went rigid. When he laid her down on the floor and saw her face, her lips were already blue.
We talk about how she must have aspirated on vomit, much like she did four years ago, the first time Brian saved her.
The doctor comes in. He tells us that the RSV and flu tests are negative, but that the X-ray shows pneumonia. He agrees that the pneumonia is likely from aspirating vomit. Brian and the doctor leave the room because Olivia is upset that they are talking. When Brian comes back in, he tells us that the doctor said he would try to get us home for Christmas. Brian and I both agree that we aren't going anywhere, except to a hospital room, until our child is healthy.
Sometime around noon, we are taken to our room.
At 2:27 p.m., I post this on Facebook: Praising God for my hero, Brian. When I can find the words, I'll write about today. For now, thank you for the prayers. Our girl is doing well and even looking at her flash cards. Christmas at the hospital. Thanking God for Christmas blessings.
Visitors come and go. We answer calls and texts when we can. Olivia is weak, but she actually plays with some of her toys and dances with her hand to some of her favorite songs. I cry some more. I pray some more.
Dr. M comes by and we retell the story of how we got here. She tells us that she's starting an antibiotic for the pneumonia and steroids for croup.
Momma goes to the house to stay with Jacob. Brian goes home for a little while to clean up and to get things ready for Christmas morning.
At 7:17 p.m., I post this on Facebook: My girl is dancing. And breathing. Praise God. I cannot get the image of her lifeless, blue body out of my mind. But, I'll deal with those emotions later. For now, I'm focusing on the blessings of Christmas in a hospital room. Merry Christmas, friends and family.
We turn on A Christmas Story at 8:00 p.m., just like we would do if we were at home. Brian and I alternate between lying in the bed with Olivia and sitting in the chair. Nurses come and go, taking vitals, listening to her lungs.
We are exhausted. Terrified. Thankful.
From our room, I can see Christmas garland draped along the windows of the nurses station.
(to be continued)
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