The Day He Lived

Six years ago today, on Saturday, May 15, 2004, Matt and I were emotionally drained but motivated for the new day.  Our baby Jackson, who was residing in the NICU at Primary Children's Medical Center, was deathly ill, again.  Two days earlier we were told to say our good-byes because the doctors weren't sure how much longer he could hang on.  Jackson had infection throughout his entire body.  In a matter of a few days, he went from weighing about 6 pounds to 13 pounds.  His tissues were swollen (imagine what a swollen ankle feels like, and then imagine your entire body that way), so swollen, that his eyes were shut, and he was laid out spread-eagle on his back.  His skin was a shiny, sickly yellow.

Matt and I spent Thursday night on a twin bed in small, closet-like room in the hospital.  We didn't sleep a wink.  The next day, Jackson seemed to be doing better, and so we went home and spent Friday night in our own beds.  Saturday we were looking forward to good numbers for Jackson.  We arrived that morning around 10 a.m. happy to see our boy, hoping for a miracle.  As we bent over his bed, trying to say cheerful words, the door opened and in walked a herd of doctors.  We knew at that moment when we were accosted by at least six different types of doctors and medical staff that something was different that day.  Included in the posse were the head neonatalogist, Jackson's attending neonatalogist, a pediatric surgeon, Jackson's nurse practitioner, a doctor from the division of Infectious Disease, a respiratory therapist, and his attending nurse. 

In a moment, our hope of a good day was shattered, blasted through the window.  What we heard next was hard to digest, "We don't know what's wrong, and he's not getting any better.  The neonatalogist, Dr. M., believes that there is something in his abdomen, like a blood clot or piece of intestine, that is causing the infection to linger; the surgeon, Dr. S., doesn't think so since nothing showed up on the ultrasound.  Here are your choices.  1.  We can do an exploratory surgery to see if we can find the source of infection. or 2.  We can do nothing and just continue hoping that the antibiotics start working and that he gets better on his own.  What would you like us to do?  We need an answer ASAP."

Um. . . uh, what?  A million questions raced through our minds and out of our mouths.  Jackson was on the most powerful antiobiotics in the world, a morphine drip to control pain, and was still recovering from his highly invasive "take-down" surgery (the doctors put his bowels back together).  He wasn't two weeks out, which is the minimum amount of time a surgeon requires between surgeries in the same spot.  Which choice was better in the doctors' opinion?  Depended upon who you asked.  Basically, either choice could kill him.  Our choice. . .

We asked for a private room.  There we broke.  Crushed, sobbing, defeated.  Three and a half months of nauseous ups and downs were at a climax.  We fell to our knees, pleading to know what we should do.  The entire time, I had a lingering thought that this experience was preparing us for something, something that would come later.

Our answer: we need to consult with the attending neonatalogist again.  His opinion was that we needed to find the source of infection.  There was something different about this doctor.  We could tell, so we asked, "Are you LDS?"  Yes, he was.  It was plain to see that he was worthy of the Holy Ghost because we could feel him there.  He left the room, and we prayed again.

For the first time, we gave Jackson back to the Lord.  We said the words, "He is yours, we give him back to you, if that is your plan for Jackson; but if he is to stay, lead us right."  Matt and I decided that if Jackson were going to die, we would want to know if there was something causing the infection anyway.  So, we decided for the exploratory surgery, even though we knew Jackson might not even survive the trip to the OR. We called all of our family members nearby; we didn't want to feel alone.  Two sisters, a brother (and their spouses), our bishop and some friends came and sat with us.

Twenty minutes later, the phone in the hospice room rang.  The surgery was done; Jackson was STABLE!!!  And. . . nothing.  There was nothing there.  The surgeon came back and talked with us.  "Your son will not survive the night.  I sewed him up so quickly because he was bleeding so much, but he's not going to make it."  I did not break at that moment.  Why?  Deep down inside, I knew, I knew that Jackson was going to live.  The Lord had promised that I would get to raise my son.  I looked straight into the surgeon's eyes and nodded.  (I'm also not one to discount the medical professional's expert opinion.  Reality exists, and I must accept all outcomes as possible.)

We closed the day with the Bishop giving Jackson a blessing.  He told Jackson that he would live and fight off the infection as long as his family had faith and believed that he would.  I called my mom, and we scheduled a family and ward fast for the next day, Sunday.

Matt and I slept at the hospital right across from Jackson's room.  I woke up once, in the morning.  I knew at once that meant Jackson was ALIVE.  No one came to get us; we slept the most peacefully that night than we had the previous three months.    Sure enough, Jackson's color was dramatically changed, and from that day on, he only got better.  Within two weeks, he was breathing on his own and was transferred back to our hospital.  Within two months (only because he was finishing out his antibiotic), he was home.

Jackson six years ago:

This is my little boy today:

I thank the Lord every day that He let us keep Jackson. 

Oh, and what did Jackson prepare the way for?  His little sister, Clarissa.