Emmanuel

I have finished my first stretch of shifts on the wards. The first two days I just hoped to make it through. And I did, but certainly not on my own. The first two shifts were "orientation." That was it. But the first words spoken to me when I walked onto the wards were "You are never alone here." This was what I valued so much at UVA and to have people preemptively say that was a huge relief.

The first evening we gave our patients their meds, assessed them, took their vitals, helped them with dinner, and got them ready for bed.

All the while we hear the toddler a few beds over struggling for each breath. He had been an EMT call at screening day, the sound audible from the other room. Emmanuel had a large tumor growing in his mouth that was slowly closing off his airway. He had been admitted first so that we could intervene quickly with a trach if it became necessary.

As soon as I walked onto the wards, everything in my PICU heart wanted to intubate him. (Which they did not because should the very vascular tumor begin to bleed with intubation, the doctors wanted to be prepared in the OR with blood and equipment). Stridor does not describe the sound or the struggle. "He's breathing funny" is a gross understatement.

His mother said he had been breathing noisily for 4 months. By the time we had him, he was simply getting tuckered out. He could not lay down, so he spent the evening being passed between my preceptor and my arms. He would wrap his tiny arms around you and hook his chin over your shoulder to try to get a better breath.

As he laid up against me, I could feel the struggle of each breath, as he used every muscle from his belly to his neck. And then he would fall asleep and the noise would stop. Everyone else would hold their breath, silently praying to hear that dreadful sound again, which would mean he was again getting air. He would cough and sputter a little bit, try to take a deep breath, then beat his little fists against me. So angry that he couldn't sleep, so tired from "sleeping" like this for months, and frustrated that it would happen again.

I whispered "one more night, Emmanuel, one more night" over and over, hoping that somewhere within him he would feel a peace that would come with his morning surgery.

The next day he was my first real PICU shift here, my comfort zone.

Tonight, I once again let his little arms curl around my neck and his body meld against mine. There was no struggle, no noise, and no sadness in his eyes. Again I whispered his name, Emmanuel, “God With Us.”

Emmanuel and his momma

  "God with Us"- MercyMe