They led us back to Ellis’s room, where she was hooked up to even more wires and already on several medications to help steady her vitals. I looked at the top of her head and could see a bump where it was starting to swell. The doctor saw me staring and led me to a chair at the back of her room. She knelt beside me.
“Ellis is very sick. Do you see that bump on her head?”
I nodded silently.
“That is her brain swelling. The meningitis is attacking her brain,” she said matter-of-factly.
I wanted to curl up in a ball and weep.
“I need to know what the extent of the damage is. We need to take her down for a CT scan,” she said.
It was then I started sobbing uncontrollably. Not a CT scan. No! Her daddy had CT scans. Hundreds of them. It was always bad news. Devastating news. I couldn’t even think about my little baby going in to have a CT scan. It was beyond understanding.
I was shaking and sobbing hard as my dad explained to the doctor about my reaction, telling her about Joel, telling her our story. The doctor shook her head in disbelief.
“This is just like what happened with Joel,” I said, nearly screaming. “It’s just like it!”
Everyone in the room was silent. I was wrapped in a hospital blanket yet still trembling in shock. The doctor looked at the ground, trying in vain to formulate her next answer. Words seemed to be failing her; then again, they seemed to be failing us all.
“I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry. I wish there was another way, but I have to find out what’s going on with her. I promise you that she needs it. I wouldn’t have her get a scan if I didn’t think it was necessary. She needs it. Do I have your permission?” she asked.
Again, I felt as if I was betraying my family member by consenting, yet there was no other choice. I was shaking and weeping, on the verge of hysterics with worry. Ellis was our joy for mourning, our beauty from ashes, and now she was in the PICU on death’s door. Life seemed unfathomably cruel.
They came to load up all the equipment to take her away for her scan. I stood beside her bed, holding her hand, telling her I loved her and it was going to be okay. Flashbacks filled my mind of this same thing happening with Joel. Could this really be happening with our daughter, too? I gently stroked her face and kissed her little fingers. I didn’t know how I would ever be able to let her go. Before I knew it the time had arrived, and they were prepared to leave.
God, please, don’t let her go. Please don’t let my baby girl go. Please, I said in silent prayer as they slowly wheeled her away.
The very first picture Joel and I took together. We were lovebirds already by that point. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Our first dance together as husband and wife. One of the greatest days of my life. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
The mountains were one of our favorite places to be. Here we are a few years into our marriage, in the thick of our battle with infertility. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
After completing our first half-marathon, a bucket list goal for each of us. Joel was diagnosed with cancer a few weeks later. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Joel about to have surgery to remove his kidney and the cancer that had engulfed it. Still smiling, ever the brave one. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Deep into chemo treatments, bald head and all. We were in a battle for his life and holding tight to each other like never before. (Photo: So Darn Happy Photography)
With my family at Joel’s No Mo’ Chemo party, feeling celebratory with the hope that life could return to normal once again. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Joel in his scrubs, right before we went in to implant the first embryos. We were both nervous, yet excited. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Welcome to the world, Milo Andrew Rodriguez. Our dream come true. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
At Milo’s baby dedication, a few weeks before Joel’s second surgery to remove the spreading cancer from his lung. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
The photo I snapped the morning of Joel’s surgery, the last time my boys would ever be together as they were. I wish I could’ve frozen this moment. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Yet another new normal, wheeling Joel down the rehab halls. (Photo: Deisy Photography)
Celebrating Milo’s first birthday at the rehab center. This was the last time we were ever together as a family. The day was extremely bittersweet. (Photo: Deisy Photography)
The morning of Joel’s funeral with his best friends from left to right—Simon, Pierre, Me, Milo, Jorge, and Russ. Smiling on the outside because they are there, wrecked on the inside because Joel is not. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
After Joel’s funeral was over, releasing balloons into the sky in honor of his 36th birthday that was only 3 weeks away. Forever 35. (Photo: Mary Morrow)
Pregnant with my beautiful baby girl. (Photo: Magnolia Adams Photography)
Welcome to the world, Ellis Claire Rodriguez. A miracle from the start. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
With my mom moments before I went in to have the last remaining embryos implanted. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
For our mourning He gave us joy. (Photo: Magnolia Adams Photography)
The first moments after Ellis was removed from the vent and placed on my chest. Weeping as I held her in my arms and choked out my goodbyes. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Our first night in the PICU. This was before the horrific swelling in her brain began to manifest. So many cords and tubes on such a tiny little baby. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
On our epic family road trip out West. Seeing the beauty of the Grand Canyon while holding even more beauty in my arms. Promises come to life. (Photo: Sarah Rodriguez)
Ellis’ first birthday, a moment I thought I might never see. (Photo: Gib Park)
A year later, my little family healthy and whole. I am wearing Joel’s wedding ring in this picture signifying he is never forgotten. As we move forward we take his memory with us, always. (Photo: Magnolia Adams Photography)
CHAPTER 10
My Sunshine
Ms. Rodriguez,” I thought I heard a loud voice say to my left. I awoke momentarily. The voice seemed to go away, so I started to drift off again.
“Ms. Rodriguez!” said the voice more firmly this time.
A hand was now tapping my hip. I awoke and turned to my left side, totally exhausted and completely disoriented. I blinked hard, trying to wake up my body and get my bearings. Now it was sinking in. I was in the PICU with Ellis. This was a doctor trying furiously to awaken me. Unfortunately, it hadn’t all been a bad dream.
I sat up in my bed to face her.
“Ellis’s platelets are extremely low. We need you to sign off on a form for us to give her more,” she was saying.
I wiped the sleep from my eyes as I heard her rattling off all the risks and benefits. Then she shoved a pen and paper in my hand to sign. I glanced up at the clock. It was 4:00 a.m. After almost two days without sleep, I had drifted off, only getting in a measly hour before I was awakened.
A few hours prior they had taken Ellis back for a CT scan that showed the swelling had started in her brain. Her vitals were going crazy, up and down like a roller coaster. She was on four different medications just to keep them stable. All evening long the monitors would go off and nurses would rush in the room to attend to her.
They had her in a medically induced coma to allow her body to rest. Because of that, I couldn’t see the seizures that had begun wracking her body due to the instability in her brain. They eventually hooked her up to an EEG machine, which would monitor them. She now had little prongs fastened to every inch of her skull. Every other part of her body was covered in cords and lines. The only part of her I could kiss that wasn’t covered in medical equipment was one of her little legs. I could also put my finger in her tiny hand.
The medical staff recommended the parent not leave the child, which is good because I had no plans to do so. At the far corner of the room was a futon with a plastic padding. I covered it in hospital sheets and made it my bed. I
t was terribly uncomfortable but pretty much what you would expect from a hospital. I had our sitter and my family staying with Milo, trying to keep things as normal as possible for him. Only a day in, and I missed him terribly.
The following morning was one of the moments I looked forward to the least—doctors’ rounds. On one hand you want to know more information about your loved one, but on the other hand, all the details they give you tend to lean toward the negative. When you are clinging to hope, you want someone to give you something, anything, to keep you going. I learned early on I wasn’t going to be getting it from a doctor. Our particular hospital was a teaching hospital, which means it was not only the doctor who came in the room but typically an entourage of four to six others. It can be quite the intimidating scene.
“Hello,” the doctor said as he strolled in the room.
“Hi,” I answered softly.
“I’ll start with the facts. She is still very sick and in critical condition. As you can tell, and the scans showed, she has pretty severe brain swelling. Because of that she’s having seizures. Her vitals aren’t very stable, so we have her on several meds to help with that. We haven’t really been able to stabilize her much, though, despite all these meds, and things are still up and down. We won’t even be able to think of feeding her for quite a while because her body can’t handle it.”
I nodded. All this I knew.
“Overall prognosis: not good. Meningitis hits small babies like this pretty hard. Most of the time many won’t survive. If they do, they typically aren’t able to walk, talk, see, or hear,” he said bluntly.
The doctor had just given me the worst news you would want to hear about your child. I now had no fewer than six pairs of eyes staring at me, awaiting my response.
“Well, Doctor, I appreciate your medical analysis. But I am a person of faith, and I believe in miracles. Say what you want, but I believe God is going to heal my baby girl,” I said resolutely.
The doctor seemed slightly taken aback at my response. In the far corner a nurse caught my eye, and ever so slightly she smiled and nodded her head in encouragement.
“There are always miracles that can happen, I suppose,” he said, shrugging. “Do you have any other questions?” he asked.
I could tell he was ready to leave, which was good because I was ready for him to leave.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
The staff shuffled out the door, and I was left alone with my girl. I walked over to her little bed.
“Ellis, you don’t pay any mind to what they say about you. You are a fighter, and you are going to beat this. God is going to heal you. You just rest, baby girl,” I told her. I kissed her leg and walked back to my bed.
The tears started to fall. I was trying to stay strong—strong in front of them and strong for her. Yet, deep down I was afraid. I didn’t know if God would heal her. My mind was still reeling from the events only sixteen months prior: Joel on a vent after numerous strokes. I believed then with my whole heart and nothing less that God would heal him. No one could convince me otherwise. I shouted it from the rooftops and fiercely held on to my belief until his death. I didn’t know where that left my belief in miracles. Do they ever really happen? Why did God not heal my husband? I had no answers. Yet, I remembered in the Bible a verse about having faith the size of a mustard seed and that you could move mountains with that kind of faith.
Wait! A thought occurred to me. I remembered Ellis’s nursery at our house. I had spent months decorating it. I am not girly, or frilly, so it took a while to decide on the decor. In the end I chose beige, ivories, chocolate browns, and gold. Her room was lovely, feminine, but not over the top. I knew I had wanted a sign for her wall that was a declaration for her life. I scoured the Internet for different themes and ideas. One finally jumped out at me, and I knew it was for Ellis. I commissioned a friend to create a sign for me with the quote and hung it over her bed. The quote stated, WHEN SHE WAKES, SHE WILL MOVE MOUNTAINS.
My mustard seed of faith was all I had, but it was going to have to move the mountains until my girl woke up from her coma and started to move them herself. It was another small thing to hold on to, but with my faith running low, I would take every small thing I could.
We were almost to the one-week mark, and Ellis was mostly the same. The meningitis was still attacking her body unmercifully. By this time she was up to seven different medications, four to keep her vitals steady and three to help with seizures alone. Even with all the different meds, the EEG was showing she was having seizures every few minutes. Everything was so unstable, and day after day I was told the same news: things are looking bleak, but we will just have to watch and see.
I hadn’t left the hospital once. I was missing my favorite boy deeply, and after a week apart, I knew I had to see him. It was also the day before my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. My heart was aching over the fact we wouldn’t be together as a family to celebrate it. My spirits were at an all-time low when my mom decided to bring Milo to the hospital to see me. I didn’t want him to see his sister in her current condition, so Mom offered to sit with her while I took Milo to the park on the sixth floor of the hospital. I was so excited all morning to finally get to see my son yet anxious about being away from Ellis, even though it was only two floors away.
My phone rang, and it was my mom telling me they were outside the PICU. I kissed Ellis, telling her I would be back soon. I slowly walked out of her room, momentarily overwhelmed by the sunshine shining brightly in the halls. I saw my family from the back, about twenty feet away. I could recognize those dark curls anywhere.
“Milo!” I yelled.
He turned around and saw me. A huge smile crept across his face.
“Moooooooommmmmmy!” he yelled, turning to run to me.
I stepped forward and caught him in my arms. His hug was fierce as he was giving me kisses all over my face. There had never been a more beautiful reunion. I had missed him so deeply.
“Mommy, I love you,” he said sweetly. This boy had every bit of me wrapped around his tiny little fingers.
“I love you, too, bubs. I’m so, so happy you came to see me. Are you ready to go to the playground?” I asked.
He nodded his head enthusiastically.
“Okay, let’s go,” I said.
I hugged my Mom good-bye as she hit the buzzer to be let back to the PICU with Ellis. She handed over a picnic lunch for us to share. I grabbed Milo’s hand, and we walked to the elevators that would take us to the playground.
We made our way outside to a thankfully mild November day. It was my first time in over a week not to breathe hospital air. I set up shop for us off to the side of the playground, spreading out our blanket and unloading the food. Milo is always happiest when food is involved, so he dived right in.
“Mommy, I miss you,” he said.
“I miss you, too, buddy. I do,” I said, my heart breaking.
“You are staying at the hospital with baby sister?” he asked.
“Yes. I have been here with her this whole time,” I answered.
“Mommy, are you and my baby sister going to come home soon?” he responded.
“I hope so, buddy. I really, really hope so,” I said.
At that moment I wished there were two of me—one to stay at the hospital fighting for my daughter and the other to go home and love on my son. I was trying so hard to be both things for both children, and in the end, I still felt like it wasn’t enough.
“I’m praying for baby sister, that God would make her much better,” he said.
Trying not to cry, I reached over and pushed a little strand of his hair out of his eyes. I leaned in and gave him a huge hug. I tried desperately not to allow the anger of what we were enduring to overshadow our moments together, but it was incredibly hard. In only two years of life, this little boy had already been through so much. I’d thought about it before, but I thought it again: life can certainly be unfair.
My thoughts were interrupted by a loud
squeal and Milo grabbing my hand.
“Mommy, let’s go play!” he yelled.
The deep thoughts, worries, and fears would have to wait. For now, it was time to simply play with my most favorite little boy.
We were now almost to the two-week mark of being in the hospital. Friends and family had kept a constant vigil by my side, and I still hadn’t left the hospital. Thankfully I was rarely alone as my tight-knit circle enfolded me. I gained solace in their nearness. I also gained strength from the prayers around the world for my girl. Her story had gone viral, and people wanting updates on my daughter were now reading the blog I had started for updates on Joel’s cancer journey. I was receiving prayers and well wishes from all parts of the world. I heard from people in England, Australia, even Turkey telling me they had wept and prayed for my daughter’s life. Stories were also so graciously sent to me of other children recovering from meningitis and going on to live a full life. I clung to those prayers and stories with all I had. They were the lifeline in the midst of some very rough seas.
Ellis had gotten to the point where she had stabilized a bit, and we had begun to talk about weaning her off her sedation to see where we stood. Only we never got that far. The first indication something was wrong was the intensifying seizures. Of course, since she was sedated, I still couldn’t see them as they happened. But the EEG was showing several occurrences within an hour. She also had some labs drawn that were concerning.
Early that morning they decided to take her back for another CT scan to see where we were. I sat in the room alone, waiting for them to bring her back and anxious for the results. Two hours later a doctor appeared in the room and asked to speak with me. She directed me over to a computer screen, where she wanted to show me the CT results as she spoke. I knew from prior experience this did not mean anything good.
From Depths We Rise Page 14