So far, it was just another boring black and white day, hectic, but just like yesterday and the day before. How was I to know that my emotional roller coaster ride was about to begin. I had never realized the pain and despair that parents must endure, even though I had been around it all my life.
At that time I was working as a metal fabricator, and my wife Debbie was a nursing student. That meant that when she had afternoon classes, I had to pick up our two daughters from the sitter and get home to start dinner. Just like every other day this quarter, after work I drove my old truck over to Miss Judy's and went in to pick up the girls. As always, I just walked in and started getting the girls' things together while Judy told me about their day. She told me that Stephanie, my five year old, had fallen off of her bike and banged her head. I never gave it a second thought until she mentioned that Steph had seemed sleepy afterward, so she had put her down for a nap. Letting a child with a possible head injury take a nap? That set off an alarm in the back of my mind, but I was in a hurry to get home, so I carried Steph and her things out to the truck, collected her sister, Jessica, and left.
On the way home, Jessi started telling me about the bike wreck. She said that Steph and another little girl had bumped into each other and had fallen down. She said that it looked like Steph had fallen asleep for a minute when they were lying on the ground. Fallen asleep! What does that mean? Was she knocked out? The alarms in the back of my mind were getting louder and closer to the front now. When I had picked her up at Judy's, I had thought she was groggy because I had just awakened her. But even fifteen minutes later she was still not really awake. I tried talking to her, but she was just too sleepy. The alarms in my mind were really starting to scream now. I thought that if I could just get her home, then I could check her out and decide what to do. I drove faster while I tried to get her fully awake.
After I slid in our driveway, I carried my sleepy bundle into the house. She groggily complained that her head was hurting. I tried to reassure her, but I was starting to get scared. After I had put her on the bed, I talked to her some more as I gently felt for the goose egg that I knew must be on her head somewhere. Suddenly, I felt something that made my heart stop -- not a lump, but a depression, a caved-in place, a place where something had hit my beautiful little girl hard enough to put a dent in her skull. How could this have happened? What kind of terrible force had attacked my dear sweet Stephanie with so much violence that it had reduced a portion of her skull to mush? The lone track, left by this evil invasion, was about the size of an egg and completely soft, like the soft spot on a newborn's head. As I sat there on the edge of the bed, horrified by what I had just found, I heard my wife come through the front door. Jessi had told her what had happened, and she came straight to the bedroom. One look at Stephanie's glazed eyes told her everything she needed to know. She said, "We have to get her to a doctor," as she headed for the telephone. The doctor agreed to meet us at the emergency room, so I held Stephanie in my arms as Debbie drove.
As we rode, no one spoke. Everyone was in his or her own private world wondering what was going to happen. I was reminded of another silent ride I had taken years ago, on a coast guard boat with my dad. I was fifteen that summer, and my brother Mike was fourteen. Along with my dad, we had been working in the fishing fleet out of Winchester Bay, Oregon. That perfect summer day was ruined by a steam roller of emotion that crushed my family. Mike's skiff had capsized out in the river, and we could not find him. My dad was overwhelmed by panic and grief as we searched the river and the bay, and organized search parties to probe the beaches and woods, all to no avail. Eventually, the body washed ashore, and that finished tearing my father's heart out. I snapped back to reality when Debbie wheeled up to the emergency room entrance. Stephanie's doctor greeted us, and we took Stephanie straight to an examining room. After a brief examination, Dr. Miller sent us for x-rays while he called a neurosurgeon. A surgeon? What does he need a surgeon for? They can't start cutting on my little girl's head. The very thought of a cold steel blade slicing into Stephanie's scalp made me weak inside. My heart and my mind raced as we started on a series of tests that I thought would never end: down for a CAT-scan, then back for more x-rays, draw some blood, up for a brain scan and on and on and on. All the while, Stephanie just wanted to sleep; whenever we had to move or disturb her she would whimper and cry. I felt so sorry for her that it made my heart ache--a real physical pain--to see her like this. I kept looking for the bright smile and laughing eyes that I knew and could not see anymore. After we had finished all of the tests, Stephanie finally got to rest.
As Debbie and I sat there waiting to hear from what was now a team of doctors, my mind wandered back to a time when my parents must have sat in a room just like this one and waited to find out about me. I was nineteen years old, ten feet tall, and bulletproof. The world was my oyster, and nobody could tell me anything because I knew it all--right up until that motorcycle and I hit that guard rail. My mom and dad sat up there for four days waiting for me to wake up, not knowing if I ever would. As I sat there waiting for some news about Stephanie, I began to learn how deep and wide and empty a feeling can be and to appreciate what my parents had gone through.
It was eleven o'clock when Dr. Miller finally came up to see us. Stephanie had a fractured skull, but they didn't think that there would be any permanent brain damage. He said that we would just have to wait for her to get better. There was nothing that they could do. Nothing they could do...Nothing they could do... Those words echoed aimlessly around in my brain.
We both stayed up there that first night. The next day I went home to shower and change clothes, then went back up to the hospital, and Deb did the same. Stephanie's condition never seemed to change: her eyes would never quite focus, and her speech was slurred and sluggish when she could wake up and talk at all. Occasionally, she would stir and let out a soft moan, but mostly, she would just lie there with her eyes closed, and it was killing me.
I went home the second night and got our other daughter, Jessi, who had been staying with neighbors. The next day I got her off to school and went to work while Deb stayed up at the hospital. That night the house seemed cold and empty. I wondered, What if she never comes home?" Could I stand it?
It brought to mind another house that must have seemed terribly empty. When I was fourteen, my mom had three sons and a foster daughter and our house was like a circus. Kids were always shouting, running, playing and sometimes fighting, but never quiet. By the time I was seventeen, there were just two of us left; Mike had drowned, and Carol had gone to live with her biological father after having lived with us for ten years. That night Dad and I had gotten into a big argument, and I had thrown all of my clothes into the car and left in a huff. When I finally called them two weeks later, Mom cried and cried begging me to come home. It just baffled me that she was getting so emotional. But that night as I sat there in that cold, dark house wondering what the future would bring for my family, I realized how empty she must have felt.
For two more days I went to work and left Deb at the hospital. I would call a couple of times a day hoping for a change, but the news was always the same. On the third day when I called, Deb asked if I wanted to talk to Stephanie. When Stephanie got on the phone I heard the biggest, brightest "Hi Daddy, whatchya doin" that I have ever heard. I knew immediately that my Stephie was back. I was so happy I--felt like I could just explode. We talked for a few minutes, but I couldn't stand it; I had to see her, and touch her, and laugh with her. When we got off the phone, I told the foreman on my way out of the door that Stephanie was better, and I was going to go see her. He smiled and waved on.
When I walked into the room, I knew for sure that everything was going to be okay. The sparkle was back in her eyes, the joy was back in her voice, and the fun was back in her movements, as she climbed on her neighbor's bed. Debbie was smiling, I was laughing, and life was good again.
Although that was a few years ago, and time has softened a lot of the images, sometimes when I am alone and letting my mind wander, I still get teary-eyed thinking about the joy of Stephanie's recovery. At the same time, I think I gained a new respect for parents everywhere and the pain that they are forced to endure just because they are parents. What tremendous misery must consume them when they see their child, whom they know is sweet and good, swept into a zombie-like state of glazed-over eyes with a vacant stare--where pain is like a giant sponge oppressing their child's every move. How gut wrenching it must be to lose a child, as if a giant, emotional claw were tearing the very heart from their innermost souls.