Gift with a Message
A true/previously published story adapted here.
When my nine-year-old son, Damon, complained, “My stomach hurts,” I thought he had a virus. Hours later he curled up in a tight ball unaware of his older sister, Treva, and younger brother, Lance, playing nearby. I knew this was not a virus.
My knees buckled with fear, as I scooped up his drooping body, and carried him to the car. His thin limbs spread out on the car seat like a worn-out stuffed toy. I prodded and hustled the other children into the backseat and sped to the doctor’s office. Dr. Forsythe rushed in and examined Damon quickly. He spoke with clipped and quick phrases.
“I think his appendix has ruptured. We must get him to the hospital right away,” he spoke without looking up from the report he was writing.
Surely, they can fix it, I thought. I can handle this—my take-charge manner kicked in.
“We don’t have time to wait for an ambulance. You’ll drive him to the hospital,” the grave tone in his voice was alarming. “The surgeon is waiting for you in the emergency room.”
My thoughts were switched to auto replay. Appendix ruptured. Surgeons waiting. I’d heard of appendicitis. People get it all the time. I wasn’t as sure about the ‘ruptured’ part. I gripped the wheel, flipped on the emergency flashers and drove, as fast as reasonably safe.
The surgeon and staff were waiting. Dr. Adams touched Damon’s tight and swollen tummy gently. His eyes met mine. He frowned. Even this seasoned surgeon seemed surprised as he said, “His appendix has ruptured.” He ordered the staff, “Set up for surgery stat.” My heart seemed to stall; a trembling started from my gut and worked its way to my fingertips. I had no choices. My child’s life was totally out of my control.
I called Damon’s dad at work.
The anesthesiologist came click clopping down the hall in his wooden shoes. He was Dutch and his wooden shoes added to the unreal feel of the situation. Was I watching a television drama? This couldn’t be as bad as it appeared to be. I was always the one in charge. What could happen?
They prepped Damon for surgery. I stood by helpless, watching the medical staff performing specific tasks with deliberate actions. Damon grew sleepy from the sedatives. I ached to hold him as I had when he was a colicky baby, but he lay helpless, nearly unconscious. The white linens, white straps across his legs, and white uniforms created a pureimage of light, but darkness filled my heart with denial. This couldn’t be. He was jumping, laughing, and playing yesterday. I walked beside the stretcher rolling its way to the operating room. In the sterile corridor outside the entrance doors to surgery, Damon lay on the stretcher under crisp sheets tightly in place with his little arms folded across his chest almost as pale as the linens that held him. He looked like a corpse. “Say ‘Goodbye’ to your son,” the nurse said.
A resistance yelled from the depth of my being.
No.
The echo came back, Noooooo.
Followed by, No choice.
The swinging doors swallowed him. I stood alone in the endless hallway, powerless—choice-less and alone.
We attended church regularly almost as if by doing so I could control everything in our lives. I prayed, but never so desperately as now. My prayers were sincere, but I expected more of myself than of my Lord.
“God, please. I need you now,” I pleaded.
Robert, Damon’s father, arrived. He said very little. Our conversations seldom came easily and often involved conflict, but now we were united in the profound desire for the wellbeing of our son. Silence spoke loudly in the tiny waiting room. An hour passed.
“He is lucky to be alive,” the surgeon was speaking as he came through the door. “His ruptured appendix has splattered poison throughout his abdominal cavity and resulted in peritonitis, a severe infection. This could have been a deadly situation.”
I never left Damon’s hospital room. I slept curled-up on a two-seat uncomfortable sofa—when I slept. He wasn’t going to have a snappy recovery. This time I couldn’t kiss him and make him well. I couldn’t make the pain go away. I laid my head next to his on the hospital bed, held his hand, and hide the expression on my face. He clung to me as I clung to hope that his body would respond to the medicines. The pain tortured his young body. Dark circles formed under his blue eyes.
Visitors came with gifts and get-well cards, many filled with cash. The room was soon adorned with helium filled balloons and computer-generated signs.
“He must walk,” the nurses insisted. The movement would jump start his system, but how could I cause him to suffer more? His young face twisted with the acute agony that every step caused.
Long and weary days passed before he could move without excruciating pain. He slowly seemed to improve. Five days later, he was released and we went home—too soon. Two hours later, he was doubled over in severe pain with a urinary blockage.
“Bring him back. We will take care of your son,” Dr. Forsyth told me on the phone. He seemed so sure. I had doubts. I was faltering as control slipped out of my hands again.
They readmitted him to the same room minus the decorations. Damon lay medicated, fragile, and still as a sleeping kitten. Specialists insisted that more tests were necessary.
A lump formed in my throat and tears pooled in my eyes. They wheeled him off into another of the secret corridors of the hospital for an ultrasound. Globs of puss like hail stones were stuck throughout his lower abdominal cavity. Soon tubes and needles carried powerful antibiotics into his bruised arms.
I watched the drip, drip, drip of the I.V. willing the mysterious liquid to clean the poison from my boy’s body. What next? Will he heal? Is there permanent damage? I was emotionally spent, no longer the mom in control. Fear had taken hold and fatigue was its partner.
My dear friend Tappy, came, “Come with me.” She led me to the tiny chapel in the hospital and led me to the front pew, slid her arm around my shoulder, and prayed. Trust that I was in control, was gone. She prayed for Damon’s recovery and then she began to pray for my strength to return.
A force of words welled up and spilled from my mouth. I said aloud, “I am like the tree that grows by the living water. I may bend but I will not break. I am like the tree,” I repeated. I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying, words came without any effort on my part as if from a source beyond me. Lord, you’ve carried me through before. I trust youare with me now. A peace wrapped itself around me and my hope started to return. My fears were replaced with peace, know the Lord was in control.
Tappy went home, and I went back to my son’s room to remain for a few more days. When I slept, I kept one hand resting on Damon. He knew I was there for him and would not leave. Soon Damon was healing and pushing his I.V. cart up and down the halls. His bare bottom blinking from behind his hospital gown put a smile on the face of each nurse he passed. At last, he was well enough to leave the hospital for good.
Mother came to drive us home. As I packed our things, Damon whispered in Mom’s ear. Then he grinned at me and said, “We’ll be right back.” He pulled her by the hand out the door towards the tiny gift shop that usually carried only candy, stuffed toys, and cards.
A Synchronicity I call Divine
When Damon came back, he was grinning ear to ear. He used most of the cash he received to buy me a present. Neither he nor my mother knew the significance of this unlikely gift. I had not expected a love gift, especially this. He held out a box for me. More than a gift, it was a tangible token of a prayer received by heaven, a message that the Lord had heard my words in the chapel. I opened the box to find a shimmering, golden tree—a verification of God’s presence.
Next entry in two weeks.
I raised three children as a single mother before I remarried. In 2007 I founded SMORE for Women, a nonprofit whose goal is Single Moms, Overjoyed, Rejuvenated, and Empowered. I’m also a Certified Professional Coach and my stories have been published in several Christian books and magazines. My book, Living Learning Loving is available on Amazon. My Website.
gailshowalterblog.com 