9 days....We spent nine days in the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) at Hershey Medical Center. Nine days in which we saw and experienced the inner working of a pediatric intensive care unit. Nine days in a place full of pain, worry and despair. The PICU is a scary place, a place not meant for the faint of heart, a place you hope you never have to visit. The PICU is a place of many sounds--the constant beepers of different contraptions used to aid the young patients is heard. Hushed whispers inhabit the place along with the sounds of young lives struggling to survive. The sound of wheezing, coughing and crying.
For a week prior to our entering the PICU, Felicia's health had continued a downward spiral. New problems kept popping and finally the doctors have no choice but to move Felicia to the PICU. Felicia's entire bed is wheeled out of her room and pushed through the halls of the pediatric floor to the PICU. Many nurses and doctors lead the entourage along with a whole host of equipment that was currently aiding Felicia in her struggles. If is a rushed affair, a well-controlled rushed affair, but one in which the urgency of the situation cannot be missed. Deanna and I walk behind the hurried parade holding back the tears. The change through the halls is quite an attention getter and we try hard not to show our fear, panic and pain. Felicia was going to the PICU. She was not truly out of our hands. We are her parents who more than just by a court-ordered adoption had pledged our life to hold her and protect her. We had promised on our faith in God and our love to hold and protect her for all her days. our power to hold her and protect her was slipping away as we made the hurried rush down the halls of the pediatric unit. Many parents of other children in the peds unit watch as we go by. I could see in their eyes at least for a brief moment that our passage had made them thankful. No matter how bad they felt, things were for them, at least their child was better off than the child in the bed full of medical equipment being attended to by 10 doctors and nurses who rushed down the hall past them. That was my child in that bed. A child I hoped was not slipping out of our grasp.
Felicia arrived at the PICU and we are sent from the room as she is set up and stabilized. We leave the room as the feeling of total helplessness sets in. We have left our daughter behind two sets of security doors, in the company of complete strangers who we now had to trust her care and well being. It was a long and lonely walk to the parents PICU waiting area.
The parents waiting area was a room with eight or nine sofas and a small kitchen. This is where parents of children in the PICU spent their time. Most of the time we parents spent here was spent waiting. Waiting to get in to see your child, waiting to talk to the doctors, waiting for news on their child and simply waiting to wait. The parents waiting room was a place for parents to talk, lean on each other, eat and sleep while others took care of our children. I met a lot of good folks in this room and shared a lot of great soulful conversation. However, I will always remember this room for what it truly was....the house of pain. For nine days I watched as seemingly every few hours a new set of parents, relatives and friends came into this room in tears. I watched as entire families went through incredible pain and sorrow at what had befallen their children and their lives. I felt this pain, every single one of them, I felt their pain. Even as I write this, I can still feel the huge hand of sorrow grabbing my heart and squeezing.
It's after midnight when we finally get in to see Felicia....she is sleeping. We had spent the last hour cleaning out her room on the pediatric floor. As we took down the now over 400 cards that had been taped to the walls, we cry again. I knew some day I would have to tear all the cards down, but I never expected it to be for this reason. Felicia awakens for a bit and I show her that I brought her her beanie babies. She brightens a bit and says "Thank you Daddy, can I give you a kiss?" We exchange kisses as she goes back to sleep. Deanna and I sit in chairs by her bedside with our eyes glued to the large monitor that monitors her blood pressure, pulse, respiration and so on. We sit, watch and wait.
Around 2:00am, activity in the PICU picks up, a spot for a bed is cleared, IV poles are brought in, life sustaining machines are rolled in and a mass of other medical objects are readied. A short time later you can hear the thud of the blades of the LIFE LION helicopter approaching the hospital. Soon another child is rushed into residence in the PICU. Along with the child comes the host of shocked, dazed and crying relatives. The parents are always easy to spot. They have an extremely glazed and empty look in their eyes, like they are simply a shell of a person anymore. I wonder if that is how I look. Later I look in the mirror to find out...reality hits hard.
It is 4:00am. All the sofas in the parents lounge are full and some others are sleeping on the floor. The room is silent, no one is snoring as no one is sleep deep enough to snore. 4:03am - the phone is ringing. Many of us sit up in a rush yet are hesitant to answer. We know it is the nurses calling and at 4:00am, it most likely will not be good. Has one of us lost a child this night? I answer the phone, it is not for me, relief sets in yet is followed by despair. The call still had to be for somebody. The parent is not in the room. The nurse will try the Ronald McDonald House next door to the hospital, where some families stay. 4:10am - the phone rings again, till I get to it. No one is there. I am panicked and call back to see Felicia. I go back and she is okay. The call was not for me. She is awake but does not recognize me.
The next day we befriend a mother and grandmother of a child in the PICU. The girl also has leukemia and is in the room next to Felicia. She is also struggling and not doing very well. We meet other parents, parents of a one month old who had heart surgery; parents of a two year old flown in by LIFE LION with a sudden asthma attack. As the days pass, we see many other kids come in, a football player injured during a game, he may be paralyzed; a child from a horrid auto accident now on life support. I begin to fear my time in the parent room, who will come in next and what story will they have to tell? My heart breaks for these folks. Yes, my own daughter is fighting for her life, but I am thankful for the stories a lot of these parents are living. I learn things could be a lot worse.
Day 7, 4:00pm. I wonder how the little girl in the room next to Felicia is doing. I look into her room, but the curtains are pulled. They must be working on her, doing vitals or something. I don't think too much of it.
Day 8, 3:00pm. I just realized I have not seen the mother and grandmother of the little girl in the room next to Felicia. Maybe she was moved back to the pediatric floor! I ask the nurse. In a hushed voice, she tells me that the little girl had passed away yesterday at 4:00pm. My heart skips a beat. I quickly leave the PICU before my stomach empties and I have a major panic attack. I quickly call Deanna. I need to hear her voice. We cry together over the phone. Reality is a bitch!
Day 9. Felicia leaves the PICU. She is "stable" and her needs can be met back on the pediatric floor. I have mixed feelings about leaving PICU. I am not convinced she is ready to leave yet. I myself must leave PICU and the parent room. I am burnt out. I can no longer take the grief and sorrow of the place. The football player, the baby who had heart surgery and the asthma kid all have gone home yet it is the kids that remain that haunt me, the parents in pain who I can never forget that stay with me. And the little girl who left the PICU on a gurney with a white sheet over her. I thank GOD she is no longer a tenant in the house of pain, yet wish somehow, someway, it could have ended differently.
For the last five years since Felicia first became ill, I have read all the obituaries of children who have died, a good number of them I have known and a good number of them have died at Hershey Medical Center. From this day forth, I will now have even stronger feelings when I read their obituaries especially the ones who have died at Hershey. I know the exact place they have died. I have been there. I have walked past their beds and I have seen them have pain, seen the pain and sorrow on their parents faces. We are bonded, and I carry each of them with me, in my heart and in my soul
Day 9, evening. Felicia is set up back on the pediatric floor. I return one last time to the parents lounge and take my name off the sleeping arrangement list. As I walk in, I see a new family there, crying, holding and hugging each other. Life in the PICU goes on......
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