Another Dawn (20 page)

I thumbed through a year-old copy of
Southern Living,
noting that the roasted chicken recipe looked good. After that I picked up a more recent copy of
Parent
magazine. There were several articles about whether or not baby food from a jar was safe to give an infant, or whether the mother should home cook all the baby’s food. Having mashed everything by hand for Dylan, I was disappointed to see that the magazine didn’t take a stronger stand in that direction.

I looked at my watch. Two thirty. Over an hour had passed and no word.

By three thirty the other people in the waiting room had all taken their leave, and I’d gone through a whole stack of magazines. Maybe this was just a waste of time. It was pointless to sit out here if she wouldn’t even see me. I stood up and walked over to the lone window in the room. It overlooked the parking lot, which was perhaps half full this afternoon.

“I’m glad you stayed.” Rob’s face had a couple of days’ worth of razor shadow, and his eyes were hollow.

“Me too.” I walked toward him. “How’s Hannah?”

He shook his head. “She’s not doing so well. She’s having some trouble breathing, and they’ve started giving her breathing treatments. Not a lot of fun, but it does seem to help.”

I nodded. “Good.”

“Listen”—he rubbed his hand through his hair—“this is probably not the best time for you to see Jana. Why don’t we wait a day or two, until Hannah gets better. I just don’t think anything good would come of you seeing each other right now.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

He nodded.

“Rob?”

“Yeah?”

“I really am sorry. For everything.”

He reached out and hugged me. “I know.”

But he didn’t know. He couldn’t. Because he wasn’t the one who had wrecked everything.

Dinner—which was more grilled chicken, since it was the one thing we all seemed to agree on—sat on our plates, mostly untouched. Neither Dad nor I had an appetite or apparently anything to say, so we sat quietly and moved the food around without eating. Dylan, however, couldn’t sit still.

“Hey, Grandpa. What do you want to do tomorrow? Should we walk down to the creek?”

Dad glanced at me, then looked back down at his plate. “I don’t know. The water’s up a bit now; it might be a little too dangerous.”

What? Had it really only been a week ago that he’d called me an unreasonable, overprotective mother? I knew he didn’t consider the creek dangerous. This comment had been made for my benefit, and mine alone. Dad was trying, too.

I thought perhaps now would be one of those opportunities for a mini do-over. “You know what, Dad? I think it’s probably okay, if you’re sure your knee is up for it. Maybe I’ll walk down with the two of you just to check it out.”

My father looked up, clearly surprised. “Well, okay, then. Why don’t we look out in the garage and see if we can scare us up a couple of fishing poles. We could bring home some dinner for tomorrow night.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.” Dylan was already pumping air fists. “We’re going to catch us some river monsters, right, Grandpa?”

I wasn’t sure whether this comment alarmed me or amused me to a greater degree. “Son, I think you’ve been watching a bit too much television since we’ve been at your grandpa’s house. I doubt seriously that there are river monsters in Shoal Creek.”

“Well, sure they would call them creek monsters, but they’re big fish all the same. Right, Grandpa?”

My father nodded. “Sounds about right to me. There’s got to be a few Shoal Creek monsters down there somewhere. It’s up to us to catch them.”

He was a good sport—at least where Dylan was concerned—I had to say that about him. And he was the only grandparent Dylan would ever know. I reached over and squeezed my father’s hand. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being so adventurous.”

A flick of surprise went across his face. “You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat and looked down.

I thought I might have seen the glisten of a tear falling from his cheek, but I couldn’t be sure.

Ring.

Dad pushed back from the table. “I’ll get it.” He was hobbling toward the phone before I even had the chance to tell him I could get it. “Hello.” He leaned against the counter. “I see. I see. Okay, what can we do? Okay, call me when you get there.”

He dropped into a chair and hung up the phone. “Hannah’s got pneumonia. They’ve had to put her on oxygen, and they are transferring her to Nashville by ambulance right now.”

Oh no. Oh no. No. No. No
.

“Hi, it’s me.” I stood looking out the window at my father’s backyard, wishing I were talking to someone who actually cared, rather than to Steve’s voice mailbox. “I just wanted to let you know that Hannah has pneumonia. Measles pneumonia. They’re transferring her to a bigger children’s hospital in Nashville. It’s really scary, and terrible here right now.” My voice cracked, but I forced myself to keep going so the machine wouldn’t cut me off. “There’s no reason to call me back. I just thought you’d want to know. Maybe you could be . . . praying for her. That’s really all we can do right now.

“I also wanted to say . . . ” I thought of all the times he’d comforted me when times got hard. Of how many times he’d forgiven me when I’d flown into a jealous rage over nothing.
“. . . that I’m . . .”
Beep.
“Sorry.” I hung up the phone, knowing that as with everything between us, I’d been too late.

My father tossed the Sunday paper on the table. “I think you’ll want to see this.”

“Somehow, I don’t think I do.” I laid my head on the table, not needing to use imagination to know what was being said about me there.

“No, really, this time I think you do. Pay special attention to the article at the bottom of the page.”

The Science of Non-Vaccinators

I took a deep breath and started reading, fully prepared to read a slanted story about the bogus science behind those of us who refuse to vaccinate.

By now, the 1998
Lancet
article by Dr. Wakefield and its later retraction have been discussed, argued, and debated plenty. Here are some other facts you may not know:

In February of 2008, the United States government conceded that a combination of nine shots at her 18-month checkup “aggravated” an existing mitochondrial condition in a young girl, whose identity has been sealed to protect her privacy. The unnamed girl was developing normally until days after her well-baby shots, at which time she began to exhibit decreasing responsiveness and other symptoms of autism, including loss of language skills, incessant screaming, arching, loss of “relatedness” and other traits of autism.

A recent survey of over 1500 American parents demonstrated that 25 percent of them believe that some vaccines can cause autism in healthy children.

Although there are numerous examples of results to the contrary, before we as a city declare this a “good” and “bad” issue, I think we all need to understand that there is enough gray area that perhaps a bit of grace could be offered to those on the opposing side—whichever side that may be for you.

Only after I’d read the article did I look up to see who had written it. Patti Fox? Again?

I looked at my father. “Why do you think she’d write this article if she’s already taking flak for the one she wrote earlier in the week?”

He shrugged. “Search me. Your letter to the editor is in there, too.”

“I’ll be right back.” I walked out my father’s front door and down the street.

When I reached the Fraker house, I hurried up the sidewalk to the front porch and pushed the doorbell. No answer. Of course there wouldn’t be. It was Sunday morning; she was likely at church. The same church my father and sister attended. The same church whose babies I had infected. The same church whose members had been praying in the waiting room for Kelsey, mere moments after they’d shunned me. The same church where I wouldn’t dare to show my face right now.

I turned and started toward my father’s house knowing one thing for certain. I would be back.

Shortly after I returned, the phone rang. My father answered with a grunt, listened in silence for a few seconds, and hung up.

“That was Rob.” He rubbed his temples between the thumb and middle finger of his left hand as he set the phone back on the counter.

“What’s happened?” I whispered the words.

“Hannah has been moved to the pediatric critical care unit. Rob says she’s not doing well at all.”

“What did you say about Hannah?” Dylan came into the kitchen, dressed for fishing and skipping rocks, looking every bit as innocent as he was. “Is she feeling better? Is she coming over?”

“I don’t think so, sweetie.”

“Are you sure? ’Cause if Hannah Rose is coming over, maybe she can go down to the creek with us. I know she’s too little to fish, but she could play on her blanket and watch. Couldn’t she, Mama?”

“I think she’s still a little too sick for fishing,” I said, choking the words out through a throat that was closing. I looked at my father. “We’ve got to go up there.”

He nodded. “You’re right, I think. It’ll make for a pretty hard day.”

“I know.” I knew that we would be stuck in the waiting room for hours, but I also knew there was no way I was staying here while Hannah was fighting for her life there. I was certain my father would feel the same way, regardless of whether or not his knee hurt. Since Nashville was over an hour away, Dylan would not be recognized there.

“What about him?” My father nodded toward Dylan. “You know they’re not going to let him back there.”

I pulled him up in my lap. “Sweetie, Hannah Rose has gotten very sick, and they’ve had to take her to a hospital—one far away. We’re going to drive up there so we can be nearby, okay? Mostly it’s going to mean lots of sitting around in a boring waiting room and just waiting to see how she’s doing, but it will have us nearby in case Aunt Jana and Uncle Rob need us. You can be a big boy and do that. Right?”

“ ’Course. I am a big boy and I’d do anything for Hannah Rose.”

“That’s what I knew. Okay, go to your room and find some books and things that you can play with while we’re there and put them in your backpack. I’ll grab a few healthy snacks and we’ll leave as soon as possible. Okay?”

Unfortunately, despite Dylan’s best intentions, he was still only a four-year-old, and twenty minutes into the hour-long drive he was already wiggling with boredom. Things weren’t going to get better from here, because this was going to end in a multi-hour sit in a waiting room. It was going to be a long day for Dylan. For all of us. At least this waiting room wouldn’t be packed with parents of a sick baby that all hated me for it. I could focus on keeping Dylan entertained and not worry about the drama.

For the first time I could ever remember, I cherished the fact that my son was going to be a handful today. It meant that he was healthy.

Dear God, please give Jana many, many, many days to be frustrated with Hannah in the future. Please keep her little lungs moving, keep her heart beating. Please, God, please.
The prayer ran through my mind over and over and over.

The lobby at Children’s Hospital had a three-level train set, with multiple points that could be activated by onlookers simply by pushing the appropriate button.

“Wow, look at that!” Dylan ran over and pressed his face to the glass.

“I’ll watch him. You go ahead.” My father nodded toward the desk across the lobby.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back.” I approached the lady at the desk. “We’re here to see Hannah Morgan. She’s in the pediatric critical care unit.”

The woman typed something in her computer. “She’s only allowed three visitors at a time. If both her parents are up there, only one of you can go in.” She nodded toward Dylan. “Unless he’s a sibling, he’ll likely be restricted, but you can ask the nurse.”

“Thanks.”

We were given visitor passes to stick on our shirts and were then pointed toward the elevator. We rode in silence. Even Dylan had gone quiet and still.

When we got to the waiting area, a lady in a green jacket was sitting behind the desk. “Name of the patient?” she asked.

“Hannah Morgan.”

“Both her parents are with her now, but one of you may go in.” She pointed at three different doors ahead of us, one green, one red, and one yellow. “Hannah is in the green section. If you get lost in the hallways back there, just look for your color and it will get you back to where you need to be.”

“Thanks.” I looked at my father. “I think Jana would rather see you right now.”

He nodded briskly, not bothering to argue the obvious. He went to the green door, rang the bell, and waited until a nurse in Tweety Bird scrubs came to let him in. The door closed and latched behind him, separating those who were allowed and those who were not. I wondered if it also separated those who were welcome and those who were not.

“Let’s see, Dylan, do you want to do some coloring?”

“I’ll draw a picture for Hannah Rose.”

“That’s a good idea, sweetie. I’ll bet they can put it up on the wall in her room, or something.” I found myself fantasizing about the scene at a family Christmas a few years down the road, when we all sat around and reminisced about this year. The year of the measles. The year that we all came through a little banged up, but in the end, we survived with nothing more than the memories of the battle left behind. At least, that’s what I prayed for.

I looked at Dylan, who had begun the process of drawing a horse, and realized there was someone else who was equally vested here. Usually, Dylan was an impatient artist and would produce copious drawings in any given hour. Today, however, he drew with precision and great care. Thirty minutes into it, he was still working on the horse, which I must say was taking on a nice dimension, considering the fact that it was being drawn by a four-year-old.

“That looks really nice, honey.” I leaned over and studied his work.

“I want to do my best work for Hannah Rose. I bet she feels real bad right now. I felt real bad last week, huh?”

“Yes, you did, sweetie.”

Just then, Rob came walking into the waiting area. There were black circles under his eyes, and his long-sleeved blue button-down was as wrinkled as I’d ever seen it. I jumped up and threw my arms around him. “How is she?”

He hugged back. “It’s pretty scary at this point. They’ve got an oxygen mask on her face, but her oxygen saturation is running lower than they like and her respiratory rate is close to sixty.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s having to breathe extra fast to make up for the lack of oxygen. Once the rate hits sixty, they won’t let her eat or drink anything by mouth. They say the likelihood of her aspirating is too high. They’re talking about intubating, but they want to avoid that if they can. I guess the next twenty-four hours will be critical.”

It took every ounce of strength not to collapse into a chair.

“Look, Uncle Rob, I’m making her a picture.” Dylan held up his work for inspection.

“Yes you are.” Rob looked over my shoulder. “That’s some fine artistic ability on display right there, buddy.”

“Do you think I can give it to Hannah Rose?” He looked up, all wide-eyed and innocent.

“I’m not sure about that, but we’ll look into it. Okay? They usually don’t let kids your age visit patients unless they are siblings.”

“What’s a sibling?”

“You know, a brother or sister.”

“Well, I’m Hannah Rose’s brother. Maybe not exactly, but in spirit we are.”

“In spirit? What kind of talking is that from a four-year-old?” Looking at the exhaustion on his face, I could only imagine how much effort this lighthearted conversation with his nephew was costing him. I’d never loved Rob more than that very minute.

“What’s wrong with that kind of talking? Don’t you think she’s my sister in spirit?”

“I sure do, buddy. I’m just surprised that you see that so clearly.”

Dylan looked as if he was trying to decide whether he was receiving a compliment or a criticism. The light smile on his face told me that he was choosing to believe the former but wasn’t wholly convinced.

Rob looked at me. “Why don’t you go and see your niece? I’ll spend a little time with my favorite
artiste
, Dylan.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. I started to turn and he touched my arm. I looked toward him. “She may not want to see you.”

I knew the sadness in my eyes must mirror his, but his eyes also carried a hint of accusation. Did mine carry guilt? I was pretty certain they did.

I rang the bell at the locked door and soon was led into a large, colorful room with dozens of little rooms off the center, each covered by a sliding glass door—most of which were open.

Not Hannah’s. Even the door was different—wooden with a large window. There was a bright yellow sign hung on it: Contact and Air Precautions
.
The nurse opened a cart that was parked right outside the door. There was a stack of something yellow and folded inside, and a collection of face masks. “You need to put one of these on, and a mask.” She handed me what I now saw was a yellow paperlike gown and a mask. “Take both things off and throw them in one of the containers before you go out of this room.”

“Okay.” After I suited up, she led me through the door, which opened to a tiny area with a sink. Another door led into Hannah’s room.

I took a deep breath before I pushed the second door open. When I walked into the room, there was Hannah, lying completely still in a little crib. She was wearing nothing but a diaper, because there were tubes and lines all across her body. There was a large oxygen mask covering most of her face, secured with tape. Her arm had a large flat board taped to it that looked almost like a splint, and IV tubing came out from the tape. I assumed this was to keep her arm stable so she didn’t pull out the IV by accident.

Jana was standing at the crib side. She didn’t look up at me. My father was sitting in a seat against the wall, his leg stretched out in front of him. His expression was grim.

“Hi, sweet girl,” I whispered softly to the unmoving lump of my niece.

Her breathing was fast, so fast, and I could see the little muscles around her rib cage working, struggling at the base of her ribs. In spite of the mask, with each contraction there was an audible squeaky kind of wheezing sound, with a rattle like loose phlegm. Even her head was bobbing in the effort to get a deeper breath. The urge to cough became almost overwhelming as if my own body were trying to cough her airways open. And even in this low light, I could see the stain of red starting to march across her face. The rash had announced its arrival.

Her ID bracelet was wrapped around her ankle, and on her other foot there was some sort of clip with a light in it. My dear, sweet little niece was covered with tubes and wires.

“Oh, dear God, please help her.” I whispered the prayer, trying to block from memory the lack of effectiveness in similar prayers over my mother’s hospital bed.

My father lumbered up from his chair. “You know what, I’ve got to stretch my knee out. I think I’ll go out and check on Rob and Dylan.” He hobbled from the room, but he turned to give me a meaningful gaze before he left.

I waited until I heard the sound of the second door closing, and finally took a deep breath and dove in. “How you holding up?”

She rubbed her hand up and down Hannah’s pinkie finger, then the ring finger, then the middle. When she got to the thumb, she had to do a modified version because the wrapping holding the board on Hannah’s arm partially covered her thumb. Jana kissed her fingers then and touched them to Hannah’s forehead, pausing long enough to see if it felt warm before returning to the pinkie finger. She gave absolutely no indication of even knowing I was in the room.

“Please Jana, I know you’re upset right now, but can’t you understand that I want to help? That I’m worried sick about Hannah? That I would take this all on myself if I had that choice?”

She looked up at me then, her eyes red from crying or lack of sleep, or both. “Oh, really? Your previous choices would contradict that.”

“You know it never entered my mind that something like this would happen.”

“Why not? There are news programs about it all the time. Some doctor from the CDC standing there saying that parents like you are putting children like mine at risk. You apparently listened to enough information from parents with absolutely no medical training to make your decision. Did you never even bother to listen to what the true experts say?”

“I’ve listened to plenty of experts—people who are living with the consequences.”

The door squeaked open and a thirtyish-year-old man wearing a yellow gown and a surgical cap walked in. “I’m from respiratory therapy, here to give Hannah her breathing treatment.”

“I guess I should go.” I started to leave.

“No,” Jana rasped. “Stay. Stay and just see what your niece is having to go through because of you.”

The man looked up at a monitor on the wall over the bed. “Looks like her oxygen sats are falling again.”

Jana nodded, biting her bottom lip. “I know.”

“Well, I’m going to do anything in my power to help keep those numbers up.” His tone was reassuring if not promising.

I looked at him. “She’s breathing so fast.”

“Yes, it’s her body trying to accommodate for the lack of oxygen she’s able to use from each breath. Actually, that’s sort of a good thing. If the respiratory rate starts dropping at this point, it tells us she’s gotten too tired to keep up the fight.”

“What would that mean?” I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear the answer.

“We’d have to sedate her and intubate. We’ll avoid that if we can, but if this little darlin’s body just can’t keep up anymore, we’ll help her out as best we can.”

He looked at Jana. “I’m going to suction her now. Do you want to leave the room for a minute?”

Jana shook her head. “No. I’m not going to leave her.” She didn’t move from the side of the crib, but she did turn her head away.

The respiratory tech removed the oxygen mask so he could stick a tube into Hannah’s lungs. She started making a gagging sound almost immediately, only in a screechier, more air-starved way than I had ever heard a gag before. The baby couldn’t breathe.

“You’re choking her.” The words ripped from me.

He didn’t even look up. He simply spoke in a very calm voice. “She’s okay. There’s lots of secretions in there. I’m just sucking them out. It sounds awful, but it’s helping her.”

The gurgling of thick liquid made me feel sick to my stomach, while everything inside of me wanted to jerk that tube out of her before it choked her. Hannah was clearly fighting against it, fighting for air. It went on forever.

Finally, he pulled the tube away. “All done now.” He attached the mask back over Hannah’s face. “I didn’t see any blood in the secretions. That’s the good news.”

By the time he finished, tears were pouring down my cheeks. Hard pressure pushed through my stomach, causing the bile to burn all the way up my throat. I ran through the first door and into the middle room. I jerked off my mask and got sick into the sink, heaving long after there was anything left to come out.

I rinsed out the sink, then my mouth, and turned around, embarrassed. The Tweety-Bird–wearing nurse entered the area, reached up into the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of spray, and doused the sink with it.

“I’m so sorry.” Humiliation burned through me. “Please let me take care of this.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “It’s okay, sweetie. You wouldn’t be human if seeing a sweet little thing like this suffer didn’t bother you.”

“I guess so.” I walked back into the room, where once again, Jana continued to watch over her daughter but refused to acknowledge my presence. It was relieving that Hannah’s breathing did sound a tiny bit less rattley after the treatment. At least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.

I walked back over to the bed. “I’m sorry, Jana. I’m sorry, Hannah. So very sorry. And I’m going to be here until this is over. I’m not going to run away this time, even if you both prefer that I would. I’m here for the long haul.” I turned and walked from the room.