A problem with Rhema’s seizure medication leads to a late-night urgent message to the neurologist-on-call.
She directs us to take Rhema to the ER.
My Rhema is drugged, out of it, can’t talk, can’t stand.
I carry her backpack, her meds and all 52 lbs of her into the hospital as if she’s weightless.
She needs to be monitored right away.
She’s going to be alright. Thank you, thank you Lord.
But she doesn’t know where she is or why she’s here.
Seeing her this way tears my heart.
She slowly tries to open her eyes and focus on me.
Why is it so bright? Why are these strange people trying to wrap a band-aid with a red light around my finger? Forget that! My head is pounding, pounding.
Oh, now they’re trying to get the band-aid thing on my toe? No way, Mom. I just want to close my eyes.
Why did they partially unzip my PJ’s? PJ’s either stay all the way on or all the way off. None of this half on half off business. I have to get them off right now, Mommy! Help!
I don’t know why my body is so slow. Why aren’t my eyes working right?
Seriously? Mommy, seriously? You know I can’t stand to have anything stuck to my body. What are all these pads they’re sticking on my chest??? I’m so uncomfortable. I’m so scared, Mommy.
Please don’t let them come near my ears. Please.
I’m ripping this stuff off. I’m getting out of this bed. I won’t let them put anything on me!
Oh, I recognize this. They may get that awful thing wrapped around my arm. But there’s no way I’m going to stay still while it squeezes my arm. It really hurts my head. When will it stop squeezing me? Please, Mommy, make it stop.
I’m crying and humming and rocking because I’m so confused. I don’t know why I’m here. I can’t understand what anyone is saying. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. I want you to get me out of here, but I don’t have the words.
All I can do is fight, Mommy. All I can do is fight.
And all I can do is say these things to you, little girl, and hope you somehow understand: You’re ok. Thank God, you’re going to be just fine. And I am always, always with you. I know you don’t understand blood draws and O2 levels and temperature and blood pressure. And honestly, I wish it wasn’t so hard… sometimes the simplest things are so hard…
But my darling, I love the fight in you. I’m so proud of the strength in you. Don’t ever lose it, your tenacity, your will. It has and will serve you well.
You are my rain lily; the storm only makes you sprout bigger and beautiful.
You will last.