The Darkest Hours of Parenting and Really Good Cake

When we arrived at Johns Hopkins Pediatric Emergency Room, we did not have to wait. Once The Boy was able to hold her, Emerie calmed down a bit, breathing in the reverse sighs that follow hard crying.

They gave us a giant bed to sit next to. I still hadn't held her. I think I wondered if they would let me. I wasn't sure I wanted to. Several doctors looked her over and took her vitals, then conferred, deciding what to do next. The kind female attending told me I could finally nurse the baby. Typically modest, I did not care who was around as I pulled Emerie to me. I would not even consider covering her face.

"Some of your extended family is here," our male nurse said, pulling the curtain and averting his eyes. They let my mom back and she hugged me tightly, her eyes full of tears. My mother, father, all three of my siblings and my new sister-in-law waited outside. We were so supported-- so loved.

While I nursed Emerie I gently rubbed her head, out of habit, and noticed the swelling. I pointed out the growing bluish bump on her head. They had not planned to do a CT scan, cognizant of the radiation, but with this new swelling in mind, the doctors changed course. She cried when we held her still under the giant orb, so I sang my made up words to Eidelweiss: "Emerie, Emerie, every morning you greet me. Early light, sometimes night; you seem happy to meet me." She stared at me and stayed still for the test.

New friends of ours from church called, responding to my earlier, SOS text. "I think we're okay," I told Stephanie, "she is acting mostly like herself and it doesn't seem like they are going to do much."

"I think we'd still like to come," she said. She and her husband both work at the hospital and live nearby. Soon she and her husband appeared beside us with a paper bag full of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was after 10 (on her husband's birthday), but there they stood with us while we learned the results of the CT Scan: a skull fracture, right parietal, and a small bleed. They decided to admit Emerie to neurosurgery for observation for the night.

Our new friend-- also a doctor-- came with me to relay the news to my parents, who arranged for Mirabella to spend the night at my brother and sister-in-law's, who would take her to day care in the morning. Another contingent brought our car to one of the hospital garages and brought The Boy's sister, who had been working hard to clean everything up at home so we wouldn't return to it, whenever we returned.

Our friends stoody by while the nurses and techs tried, for nearly an hour, to find a tiny vein for an IV and to collect blood. It took seven attempts. She screamed while I held her bruised arms down; I put my head down while I cried.

We spent the night on a ward with children far sicker than ours, with rare chromosomal abnormalities, or in traction, or worse. It kept things in perspective. It was so clinical. Emerie was hooked to several machines and an IV, and I was not allowed to feed her in case something changed and surgery would be needed.

I wasn't sure how Emerie would receive me, after all this. It sounds silly to me now, but I think I wondered if she would trust me-- whether she would forgive me. But that night, and even now, no one else could console her. I nearly fell asleep standing up, nervous that if I sat I would sleep and she would slip from my arms. A sweet nurse offered to take her so I could get a couple hours of sleep.

In the morning, a neurosurgical team determined she would be fine. "It will be, to her, as if it never happened," the neurosurgeon said. A nurse told me, "It will take 3-4 weeks for her to heal, and probably far longer for you."

She was right. The social worker they sent to talk to me said, "I have talked with the doctors and reviewed your case and the only question I have for you is if you are okay." She told me parents-- mothers in particular-- have a tendency to replay the event."

"YES," I said, teary-eyed. "I worry....that I won't ever stop seeing it. It was horrific-- the worst thing I...ever saw," I said, struggling to get the words out.

We brought Emerie home and took a nap-- all three of us. Our neighbor brought over authentic Irish brown bread and potato soup, which we ate for dinner once Mirabella came home from day care. After a trip back to the ER later that night to investigate additional swelling (it was nothing to worry about), we picked Mirabella up from our friends' house. We loaded her into the car-- in her PJs and bare feet, with sleepy eyes.

We got home and savored giant slices of Emerie's birthday cake with lumps in our throats and renewed gratitude for the blessings we've been given. We carried a large slice to our neighbors, wanting to share the celebration.

I held Emerie while I watched The Boy eating cake sitting across from Mirabella, who was overwhelmed by her good fortune. "I love you so much," he told her.

"Why your say that, Daddy? You telled me that al-ready!" She replied.

We have been overwhelmed. By God's protection of our sweet baby, His provision of new friends who acted like family without a second of hesitation, and of family who couldn't have imagined not being there. Friends and strangers prayed, and we really did feel it.

In the end, Emerie is just fine. At her neurosurgical follow-up this week, she got a clean bill of health. I can now tell the story without crying. And the rest of life, as a result, has gotten better.

But that will have to be a story for another day.