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Authors: Rachelle Sparks
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other nurses arrived to help drag her out.
Words and screams stuck in the back of Sharon’s throat as she watched the nurses and her shaking daughter with frightened eyes. She needed to know what was going on. This was not part of the plan. She stood, frozen, chaos circling, as Dr. Bob Timbarrough came into the room and took her hands.
He looked straight into her eyes and said, “Mom, you’ve got a very sick little girl here. You’re going to see a lot of people coming and going. I need you out of this room right now. As soon as I know something, you’ll know something. Give me a little time and we’ll get this thing figured out.”
He was polite but forceful, kind but stern. He gave her the direction she needed, and all Sharon could do was wait. She paced the halls and prayed to God.
After several tests and a spinal tap, doctors determined that the bacteria in Katelyn’s blood and bowels had migrated to her brain.
“We’ve never had anyone with these bacteria in the brain live for more than forty-eight hours,” a neurosurgeon said to Sharon as he discussed test results with her, viewing scans of Katelyn’s brain. “And we’re in hour twenty-three.”
Sharon sat as still as the room, stared through the scans, waiting for her words and thoughts to come together, to make any kind of sense. It was 6:00 a.m. and Ray hadn’t made it to the hospital yet. This doctor was giving their daughter a day and an hour to live, and that was his plan. There was no other.
“Thank you very much,” said Dr. Timbarrough, almostsarcastically. He looked at the other neurosurgeon and then at Sharon. “Let’s take a little walk.”
Does he have another plan?
Sharon wondered.
“What he’s saying is true,” Dr. Timbarrough nearly whispered in the quiet hall. “We’ve never seen anyone live longer than forty-eight hours once these bacteria reach the brain. But there’s always got to be a first. I’m ready to call somebody else. Is that okay?”
“So you’re not ready to give up on her?”
His expression, the hope in his eyes, was her answer. He called in Dr. Stephanie Einhouse, a neurosurgeon he knew would help attempt to save Katelyn, and Sharon called Ray, who headed straight to the hospital.
The first step in Dr. Einhouse’s plan was to drain fluids running like rivers through Katelyn’s brain. After a successful surgery, however, the external drain wasn’t enough and fluids pooled and rushed in again like an undammed lake.
“She’s not strong enough,” said one doctor when Dr. Einhouse’s next proposed step was to insert two internal brain shunts to relieve the pressure.
A ventilator was breathing for Katelyn, who was officially comatose. A tube was feeding her, and her immune system had nearly disappeared beneath the weight of chemotherapy. “She’s been too compromised already, and we don’t think she can handle the surgery.”
“So she’ll
for sure
die if we don’t do anything, and she
might
die if we do the surgery,” Sharon confirmed, her plan forming.
The doctors nodded.
“I’d rather her die trying,” she said, and Ray agreed.
After another successful surgery, the fluids continued to rise and fall like tides, and though Katelyn remained asleep, she was alive. Her parents manually kept her that way with the push of abutton beneath Katelyn’s scalp, which activated a pump to drain the fluids and keep them temporarily at bay. Nurses had explained to Ray and Sharon how the soft button worked—any amount of resistance indicated too much fluid, meaning more pumps of the button were needed. The resistance behind every push, the bacteria’s determined stance, made Sharon and Ray fight even harder, believe even deeper.
Sharon knew in her heart of hearts that nothing was going to happen to Katelyn until God prepared her for it, but day after day, hour after hour of staring at her daughter’s face, wanting so desperately to look into her eyes, began to wear on Sharon’s spirit and she
Words and screams stuck in the back of Sharon’s throat as she watched the nurses and her shaking daughter with frightened eyes. She needed to know what was going on. This was not part of the plan. She stood, frozen, chaos circling, as Dr. Bob Timbarrough came into the room and took her hands.
He looked straight into her eyes and said, “Mom, you’ve got a very sick little girl here. You’re going to see a lot of people coming and going. I need you out of this room right now. As soon as I know something, you’ll know something. Give me a little time and we’ll get this thing figured out.”
He was polite but forceful, kind but stern. He gave her the direction she needed, and all Sharon could do was wait. She paced the halls and prayed to God.
After several tests and a spinal tap, doctors determined that the bacteria in Katelyn’s blood and bowels had migrated to her brain.
“We’ve never had anyone with these bacteria in the brain live for more than forty-eight hours,” a neurosurgeon said to Sharon as he discussed test results with her, viewing scans of Katelyn’s brain. “And we’re in hour twenty-three.”
Sharon sat as still as the room, stared through the scans, waiting for her words and thoughts to come together, to make any kind of sense. It was 6:00 a.m. and Ray hadn’t made it to the hospital yet. This doctor was giving their daughter a day and an hour to live, and that was his plan. There was no other.
“Thank you very much,” said Dr. Timbarrough, almostsarcastically. He looked at the other neurosurgeon and then at Sharon. “Let’s take a little walk.”
Does he have another plan?
Sharon wondered.
“What he’s saying is true,” Dr. Timbarrough nearly whispered in the quiet hall. “We’ve never seen anyone live longer than forty-eight hours once these bacteria reach the brain. But there’s always got to be a first. I’m ready to call somebody else. Is that okay?”
“So you’re not ready to give up on her?”
His expression, the hope in his eyes, was her answer. He called in Dr. Stephanie Einhouse, a neurosurgeon he knew would help attempt to save Katelyn, and Sharon called Ray, who headed straight to the hospital.
The first step in Dr. Einhouse’s plan was to drain fluids running like rivers through Katelyn’s brain. After a successful surgery, however, the external drain wasn’t enough and fluids pooled and rushed in again like an undammed lake.
“She’s not strong enough,” said one doctor when Dr. Einhouse’s next proposed step was to insert two internal brain shunts to relieve the pressure.
A ventilator was breathing for Katelyn, who was officially comatose. A tube was feeding her, and her immune system had nearly disappeared beneath the weight of chemotherapy. “She’s been too compromised already, and we don’t think she can handle the surgery.”
“So she’ll
for sure
die if we don’t do anything, and she
might
die if we do the surgery,” Sharon confirmed, her plan forming.
The doctors nodded.
“I’d rather her die trying,” she said, and Ray agreed.
After another successful surgery, the fluids continued to rise and fall like tides, and though Katelyn remained asleep, she was alive. Her parents manually kept her that way with the push of abutton beneath Katelyn’s scalp, which activated a pump to drain the fluids and keep them temporarily at bay. Nurses had explained to Ray and Sharon how the soft button worked—any amount of resistance indicated too much fluid, meaning more pumps of the button were needed. The resistance behind every push, the bacteria’s determined stance, made Sharon and Ray fight even harder, believe even deeper.
Sharon knew in her heart of hearts that nothing was going to happen to Katelyn until God prepared her for it, but day after day, hour after hour of staring at her daughter’s face, wanting so desperately to look into her eyes, began to wear on Sharon’s spirit and she
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