August 6th

August 6th is my son's birthday.  This year, he turns eight.  Eight seems pretty old to me, hard to believe.  (I remember when I turned eight, I thought I was big stuff, challenging my much larger brother with an ill-advised, "Don't mess with the eight-year-old.")

August 6th is also the anniversary of two of the scariest days of my life...



Eight years ago, Liz was going through about 40 hours of labor pains, mostly at home.  We had been sent home from the hospital on that Saturday night, because she wasn't progressing, and we stayed at home all day Sunday, with intense labor pains about 6-8 minutes apart all day and night.

By the time Monday morning came, I had determined (as had Liz) that we were going to see somebody that day, if only to check on the baby.  We were admitted into the hospital, where they found she almost dilated enough to start pushing.  I guess you can be in "active labor" when your contractions are further than five minutes apart, after all.

Because Liz was so exhausted and in pain, we opted for an epidural, and a while later, when she hadn't progressed any further, they decided to break the water.

What happened next happened very fast.  They found poo (meconium) in the fluid, and suddenly they started rolling Liz all around the table.  I thought they were having trouble finding the baby's heartbeat, because it was more than 100 beats slower than it had been, but they said they had it.  A doctor was rushed in and with a quick nod of consent, Liz was wheeled off to the operating room for an emergency C-section.

I was left to put on scrubs as fast as I could.  I prayed for my wife and child as I did.  I think I was too rushed to even feel the emotions I should have felt.  Nurses stood by to tell me it would be OK and that since she had the epidural, they might have the baby out before I even got back there.

Liz and I had not found out the gender of the baby at this point, but, as corny as it might sound to some, I believed God had revealed to me it was going to be a boy and I was to name him Joseph.  So we went to the hospital with only that name picked out, with only conversations (not decisions) on names for a girl or a middle name.

When I got to the operating room, I found Liz with her arms spread out like she was being crucified, with a curtain covering her lower half.  She asked me to massage her shoulders as we waited.  We didn't have to wait long when we heard the most beautiful sound: the loud, healthy cry of a baby.

"It's a boy!" they said.  Now it was our turn to start crying, with the relief pouring out of us in the paradox of huge smiles and tears, simultaneously.  I walked over to the table as they cleaned him off and they asked, "What's his name?"

"I guess that's Joseph," I said.

There was still a trip to the NICU to endure, but the fear was over.  We had our son, just like God had promised.

Seven years later, it was time to wake up and get some birthday donuts.  Joseph was turning seven and his three-year-old little sister Hope was as excited about his birthday as he was.  They had been sharing a room for the last few months to make room for their baby sister Susanna, who had been born in the spring.  So they kept each other up half the night.

So they popped out of bed very early--well, really only Joseph.  Hope was in a weird daze.  She went to the bathroom and peed on the toilet but forgot to pull down her pants.  She wasn't saying much, so I gave her some new shorts and put her back to bed while Joe and I got the donuts.  When I came back, she was sleeping soundly, so I let her sleep a while longer.

When Liz finally went in to offer her a birthday donut, she called out for me in a voice that made me run to the room.  There was Hope--her eyes were rolled back, there was vomit or drool all over the bed, and she had pooped her pants.  Her jaw was locked, and she was absolutely unresponsive.

Illogically, I just picked her up and started running her outside toward the car.  Liz said, "She's having a seizure.  We need to take her to the hospital."  I was going to take her myself, but she started twitching (she had been motionless before), and I was afraid to have her in a carseat like that, so I called 911.

It's a surreal experience to call 911 in a real emergency, to ask for an ambulance for your own daughter.  Where we live, I knew it could be a while before the ambulance arrived, so I was worried.  We didn't know how long she had been seizing already, and it had now been more than 10 minutes since we found her.

Liz talked to our little girl as she kicked and chewed her tongue, making blood run down her cheek.  I stayed on the line with the 911 person while I also tried to calm Joseph down.  I needed someone to calm me down.

Time ticked away... 20 minutes, then 30.  Still no ambulance, still no end to the seizure.  Finally, about 40 minutes after we found her, the ambulance arrived.  They put her in the ambulance to treat her but wouldn't let me watch.  I just wanted to see that they got the seizure stopped.  Liz rode with them to the hospital.

I took the baby in the carseat and grabbed a couple of things and left for the hospital.  Joseph stayed with our neighbor.  I somehow got to the hospital not long after the ambulance.  I watched them wheel Hope into the emergency room.  I could see her leg still kicking.  The seizure was still not over.

"Why hasn't she stopped?!" I yelled to no one in particular.

When they got her into the room, they finally got enough drugs to her to stop the seizure.  X-rays showed fluid in her lungs, so they wanted to airlift her to the Children's Hospital in Little Rock.

I flew with her to Little Rock.  She was knocked out for the most part, only giving a whimper here and there.  I think she knew I was there but not much else.

The doctors in Little Rock said the fluid was blood and saliva she had aspirated during the seizure.  She stayed a couple of days and went home.  Today, she is on a daily prevention medicine but is otherwise fine.

These two August 6th events can't help but leave a mark.  I am marked in my heart and mind from these events.

One day several years ago, I woke up to the thought that if we hadn't been in the hospital (or it had been 100 years ago), I might have lost both Joseph and Liz.  I couldn't go back to sleep.

And as August 6th approaches this year, I can't help but be on edge about Hope getting enough rest and being sure she is getting her medicine on time.

But at the same time, both events are a testimony to the faithfulness of God.  I said in my last post that the story of my life is, "You can trust God," and that seems to be the takeaway I have from most of my life experiences.  These are no exception.  I could worry about what might happen or shudder at what could have been, but these things were and are in the hands of a God I can trust.

It's amazing how God showers His love on us in difficult times.  The love, the hugs, the calls, the kind words, the faithful service, and the visits and smiles from people God sends shows that God uses people to express His love for us.  I am thankful for that.

I am also aware that God is good.  He is not needlessly harsh.  I think in these times of fear, there was a voice that was saying, "Here it is.  Here is your 'big one.'  Your charmed life is over."  But even though God's people can and often do suffer greatly, we do not need to live our lives waiting for the hammer to fall.  He has compassion on us just as a father has compassion on his children (Psalm 103:13).  I think God taught me even more about what that means through these experiences.

So tonight, I am going to go to bed and awake to another August 6th.  I don't know what it will hold.  I hope it will be a nice, calm birthday that Joseph enjoys.  He is worth celebrating.

But that's the thing: I don't know.  But I know God, and that's enough.