Part 3: Sounds, Scents & Sights...

It is surreal. You just can't figure out what is happening. This are moving at snail speed and at hyper speed, simultaneously. People are talking so fast and so slow all at the same time. You can't wait to be through it, but are afraid to go through it. It is THE strangest place to be. Some of the sounds and smells and memories I have are so vivid, I will never forget them. I remember the sound of the loud pipes in the ceiling of the waiting room. By the end of our time there (just a brief 18 hours or so), I can remember you could do a literal countdown from the time the toilet just outside of the waiting room would flush to when the pipes in the ceiling would make a loud banging sound. Flush..... 5, 4, 3, 2, 1   BANG, BANG! Or.... the fact that it seemed like the Twins Game was on for hours and hours and hours. And it was! It was on earlier in the evening and then it was replayed in late night. None of us thought to change the channel or turn it off. Baseball is hard for me to watch to this day. I can remember the smells of the hospital. In particular, the smell of the plastic tubing, iodine, alcohol and items so sterile you were afraid to touch them. I remember the faces of our loved ones, care warned with worry and fear. These images become more vivid and difficult as our time went on and I will talk about that later.

As the long evening went on, friends insisted that we try and eat. I remember well the taste of the vending machine sandwich that I tried to choke down. It felt like swallowing rocks or sand, or clay. I just couldn't do it. I did however, drink water like I had never tasted it before. I could not get enough. That was probably good, because they way I was in and out of cold sweats, I am sure I needed the dehydration. We settled in. The hospital gave us a small hotel room like area that we could sleep in and shower because they told us it would be a long haul. That room was one more door away from Hailee, so we brought the pillows and blankets out into the main waiting room and we waited. And then, we waited. Friends and family took turns with us going in to room to be with Hailee. It was so difficult to see her like that. Chad and I could only take small doses of it at a time. Thank God for our loved ones who watched over her when we needed to breath, and scream. Hailee's temperature, while still very high started to ever-so-slowly come down. By about 2 or 3 in the morning, it was actually normal. Our loved ones celebrated. Everyone was so happy and just knew she would be okay. I tried my best to join in and rejoice, but again...... something was nagging me from afar. Maybe it was my nursing background??? It just made no sense. For the life of me I could not figure out what was happening and just didn't believe she was out of the woods. After her temperature became normal, most of the visitors hold vigil headed for home. By this time Chad's Mom and Paul had arrived from Mille Lacs. So, it was Chad and I, My mom and Dad, little sister and Bonnie and Paul waiting through the night. Sometime after people left, and somewhere between the 6th and 20th inning of the Twins' game... I must have nodded off. I can remember having that jerking sensation.... like you are falling. I was restless.... but exhausted. I kept opening up one eye to check on Chad next to me and he had nodded off as well. I allowed myself to slip a little further into sleep. Strike one..... line drive to center field..... RBI's, Base hit. All of a sudden I heard "Heidi!". With my Dad on my left and Chad on my right, I shot straight up and said "What?" The Doctor had come to the waiting room. He seemed in a flurry. He had tried to call us on our phone in our little sleeping suite, but we were not there, of course. We were still in the main waiting room. If I could describe his face to you all I would say it looked like fear, shock and anxiety. I immediately knew something was very wrong. "Heidi", he said. "Hailee's 4am neurological evaluation went poorly. It appears that her pupils have dilated, and that is a very bad sign. We are taking her to CAT scan immediately". And then he was gone. We waited, and waited, and waited. I was pacing the floor like I used to when I was 15 and talking on the phone in my parents kitchen. (Incidentally, I got in so much trouble for that because back in those days the phone still had a cord and I would stretch it out to the point it wouldn't work)... anyway, I digress.

We waited for what seemed like an eternity and finally the doctor came to give us the news. Hailee's CT scan showed significant swelling on her brain. Her condition was grave. They were calling in a neurosurgeon who would perform a procedure to drill holes into Hailee's skull in an attempt to relieve the swelling. Time was of the essence as the swelling looked to be severe.

We again made phone calls. To my older sister who headed back to Becker, MN as her own daughter's 13th birthday was that day, to Chad's Dad and Sue and to my best friend Leah. We asked them all to come back as Hailee's condition had taken this turn. We told them about the drilling and how grave things looked. We asked my best friend Leah to go to our house and get our boys, asap. All of these wonderful folks had just gotten home and into their beds and got right back up and headed to St. Paul.

Shortly after that, probably the most insensitive physician I have ever met entered the scene. He came to give us the details of the procedure and get informed consent from us to bore the holes in her beautiful skull. After telling us about the procedure and the risks (including infection, of all things) my Dad asked him a question. Now, before I tell you about this question, let me tell you just a tiny bit about my Dad. He is a Rock. At that time I had seen him full out cry on one other occasion. When his Dad died. I looked at my Stoic father and saw crocodile tears streaming from his ashen looking face. His body moved with his sobs.
He mouthed the words... I am not sure how... but he did. He asked "Wh Wha What's Plan B?" The neurosurgeon looked at my Dad and said "Plan B?, What do you mean?" My dad replied, "Wha Wha What if this pro pro procedure doesn't work?" The neurosurgeon looked right at us as he said "There is no Plan B. She will die".
Just like that.
We we had option A only.
No other solution. No other miracle. No other way.
We were holding onto one hope. It was devastating.
We grabbed the paper from this cold-hearted physician that Chad still thinks we interrupted from a round of golf, and literally signed our daughter's life away.

Off he went. And we? Well....... we waited.

More to come,

Heidi