Long Tale Press

March 17, 2000. St. Patrick’s day—the day to wear green, drink green beer and celebrate the Irish. For me it remains the day when my world came crashing down around me.

My two year old son was breathing heavily. He was rarely awake and when he was awake he wanted to do nothing but drink. He was drinking so much that I couldn’t keep a diaper on him. He was wetting everything and soaking all of his blankets. He was clingy and wouldn’t let me out of his sight. He wanted me to hold him while he slept. He barely spoke any more. I could get nothing done. I didn’t know what was wrong.

My mother in-law had been diagnosed with kidney disease but my son was peeing all of the time. His kidneys seemed to be working. I had taken him to the ER earlier. He had white all over his tongue and was trying to wipe it off with a dirty sock. I knew something was seriously wrong at that point. No one willingly sticks a dirty sock in their mouth. The ER doctor gave him antibiotics and said he had an ear infection. I was not to worry about the occasional vomiting because he was drinking a lot. I spoke to a nurse and commented that he had vomited before we left home but had been fine on the trip to the hospital. She also said it could not be that bad either if the vomiting was only now and then.

I didn’t think that we were dealing with an ear infection. I still didn’t know what the real problem was but who was I to question the medical staff? They were the professionals. I was simply the mother. They said that he was fine. I had to assume that he would be. If he was really sick they would have kept him or done more tests.

Despite the antibiotics, my son just kept getting worse. I booked an appointment with our family doctor. It was flu season and this bug really seemed to be taking its toll on my little guy. He remained clingy, slept a lot and was constantly peeing. He somehow could find the strength to get to the fridge and drink from a container of apple juice though. I was getting tired of washing and covering everything to protect it from his urine. Nothing was staying dry. We would see the doctor just after lunch. I stopped at a store before our appointment and picked up some baby food. I was hoping that he would be able to handle it later on.

As we sat in the waiting room, everyone’s eyes were on the eerily still little bundle in my arms. He was sound asleep and labouring to breathe. A lady was called in before us but she refused to go. She told the staff that we were to be seen first. I picked my child up in my arms and headed down the hallway to the examining room.

The receptionist looked at my child with deep concern on her face. I had been seeing this doctor since before both of my boys were born. She knew me and my children. She knew that this was not normal for my son. I told her that his feet were freezing despite the wool socks that I had put on his feet. I just could not get him warm. She continued to look worried. She touched his cool, limp body and told me that our doctor would be right in. We did not have long to wait before he arrived. My son never left my arms. The doctor simply looked and him and gave me his diagnosis. In that one quick glance and he told me that my son most likely had diabetes. He was in ketoacidosis. He had carbon dioxide running through his blood instead of oxygen. This was very serious. He could be wrong. It may only be a chest infection but he was ordering an emergency battery of tests. We were to go to the hospital immediately. We would be seen as soon as we got there. We had no time to waste. The staff would be waiting for us.

My mind was a blur. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying. I understood a chest infection. That would be okay. The rest sounded scary so I put it out of my mind. He had a chest infection and we would have that treated. I packed my child back up and headed off to the hospital. All would be fine. We would get our tests and we would return to the doctor’s office for a prescription. My son would be himself in no time. I had confidence in this doctor. I ignored the worried look on his face. I focused on a diagnosis of a chest infection. The other words I refused to comprehend. It was not good to have carbon dioxide in your blood. Nothing bad could happen to my child. He would be fine.

True to his word, we were immediately taken into the lab where they drew blood. The staff couldn’t believe how still he was. He was two years old and didn’t flinch when they drew his blood. The x-ray was just as odd. I had to hold him up so that they could get the right angles. We were finished everything in no time flat and headed back to the doctor’s office. We arrived before the results did. We sat down and across from me was a poster that said “The signs and symptoms of diabetes”. As I read it my heart began to sink…

Laboured breathing

Constant thirst

Needing to urinate a lot

Lethargic

Occasional vomiting

The list continued but those ones jumped out at me. My little boy had almost every symptom that they listed! He had diabetes but he was so peaceful. If it wasn’t for the rasp in his every breath, he looked like he was simply sleeping. Diabetes wasn’t that bad…was it? What was going on? Now things were beginning to sink in and I was terrified. All of those worried looks from everyone who saw us were starting to hit home. My baby was seriously ill! He might only have diabetes but he also had this thing called ketoacidosis. He still had to be okay. I had lost one child before he was born. I had miscarried but I still felt that I had lost a baby. I had been four months along in my pregnancy. The loss devastated me. I would not go through that again and not with a child that I had given birth to, nursed and held in my arms. My latest baby was over two years old. I was not going to lose any more children. My son was going to be okay no matter what.

Soon after our return the doctor came out of his office. His face was deathly serious. He took me into his office. “Barbra, it is as I feared. Liam has diabetic ketoacidosis. I have already called the Corner Brook hospital and a doctor will be waiting for you. He is the best. You have to get there right away. Go straight to the hospital. Liam is a very sick little boy.”

Go straight to the hospital. Liam is a very sick little boy. Hurry! My mind was on auto-pilot. I had yet to put my son down. By keeping him in my arms I was sure that his mother’s love could keep him safe and protected. It had to. I walked back to the waiting room and told my husband the news. We hurried to our vehicle. It had started to snow but I didn’t notice. My other son sat up front with his father as I held Liam in my arms in the back seat. He always sat in a car seat but this time was different. This time I had to keep him close to keep him alive. As long as we were touching nothing could take him away from me. As long as he was pressed to my chest, my heart would keep his beating.

Fear began to truly take hold as we headed off to the next hospital. The drive is about an hour long on good roads—and we had hit a snow storm. I sat and did nothing but pray and will my son to keep living. If there was a way to transfer my life into his small body I was trying. I didn’t see the roads and I was later told that there was not a lot of road to see. My focus was on the small body in my arms. He had to live. He had to be okay. He was my baby and he was going to be okay. I was owed this. My child had to live. My baby would be fine. He was mine. No one was taking him before his time and this was definitely not his time.

I don’t know how long it took to get to the hospital. I just know that when we were finally there I raced to the admitting department. The woman there seemed to take forever. She didn’t seem to understand that this was an emergency. My son was fighting for his life. What did paperwork matter? She finally finished doing all that was required and then took me to the Paediatrics floor. I was never so relieved to see a medical staff in front of me. Now Liam would be okay. We were in the hands of the best in our area. Things were not going to be that bad but the looks on their faces suggested a different story.

They began to get his general information. Height and weight could not be done in the traditional way because he still was not awake. They put him on a baby scale and I was shocked to see that my two year old little boy weighed 11kg. He was just over 7 lbs when he was born and now he was only just over 22 lbs! What had happened? How did he get so thin? How did I not see this? He was always slight but this seemed surreal. What kind of a mother allows her child to end up in this condition? My mind continued to race and reel. What was going to happen to my child?

He was put into a bed and a monitor was attached to his finger. We were told that it would measure the amount of oxygen in his blood. The readings were not comforting. He looked so small and vulnerable. Why didn’t he have more oxygen in his system? How could I fix this? I was his mom; I was supposed to be able to fix this. My job was to keep him healthy and I had failed miserably. What sort of a parent was I? Nurses continued to flow in and out. It was as if they all wanted to see this tiny wonder that was clinging to life in this big bed. He was so small—so gaunt. I was still holding his little hand when a man walked in the room. He had bushy hair, a bushy beard, big winter boots and a lumber jack shirt. He did not look like a doctor. I seriously wondered how he could be called the best. He looked like a smaller version of Grizzly Adams. I knew that there was a snow storm going on outside but this was going to be the man who saved my son? Absolutely--his incredible skill and our family doctor’s fast thinking would be the only thing that kept my son alive that day. This man would also set the course for the rest of my life.

Our new doctor shed his winter clothes and immediately examined my son. He ordered the nurses to move Liam to the Intensive Care Unit. I was terrified—too terrified to even cry. Things kept happening so quickly and nothing was making Liam better. Everything just seemed to be getting worse. He was at the hospital. He had the best care. He was supposed to get well now. Instead he was quickly moved to a ward with old people and those who were waiting to die. He was hooked up to tubes and a catheter. That wasn’t enough. A specialist was called in. They wanted to put in a heart line. It was a dangerous procedure but like all other medical terms that day, it just went in one ear and out the other. He needed a procedure done that would help to keep him alive. This would allow them to more easily test his blood and monitor his condition. That much we understood. We instantly agreed. When the specialist arrived he was abrupt and went straight to business.

This was not something for the family to see. We were ordered out of the room. This was the first time I had left Liam’s side. My heart ached. If he didn’t have my touch then who would protect him and keep him alive? I prayed that he would be okay until they would allow me back in the room with him. My son’s life was on the line and we were left to feel we were simply in the way. The serious nature of what was going on continued to be pounded into me and my level of terror continued to grow.

As the procedure was being done Liam’s new doctor told us that my son’s condition was very critical. Currently his blood glucose level was seven times higher than it should be. They had to bring him back down slowly or they may cause brain damage or a heart attack. If he survived the next 12 hours then they would begin to examine if any further damage had been done. They would then look at his kidney functioning and see if any brain damage had occurred. In the meantime all we could do was wait. I was shocked--numb. We were shown to a waiting room until the heart line was inserted. There we could make any phone calls that we needed.

I called my mother. My family lived on the other side of the country. I felt completely alone. There was no one I could call to come and sit with us or to take my oldest son. There was no one there to hold my hand and tell me it would be alright. There were no shoulders to cry on although I still hadn’t cried. Everything was still surreal. This could not happen to my child. My child could not be given 12 hours to live. My children were healthy and happy. This was not happening to us.

I called my mom gave her the news—well as much as I could. All I could say was that Liam was sick and we had 12 hours to see if he would live. As the words left my mouth they began to sink in and the tears came. I was alone. I would cope. I had to be strong for my baby. I had to be strong for his big brother. I wiped away the tears and asked her to call my father and the rest of the family. She was in shock and just simply agreed.

I honestly don’t remember who called my mother in-law. I think my husband did while I was making my call. She lived next door to us and was worried that we weren’t home yet. Her daughter had called our family doctor and then the hospital itself. She soon learned that her youngest grandson was in ICU fighting for his life. I would later learn that our family doctor had also kept tabs on my son for the entire time he was in the hospital. He had his staff call the ICU every few hours to check and see how my little boy was doing.

I was finally allowed back in the room with my baby. My husband came in and out but spent most of the night on a couch in a waiting room with our oldest son. We were in two different worlds. We both were praying for our son but it would take a crow bar to move me from Liam’s side now. I knew that my other son was being watched by his father. I held Liam’s hand and continued to will him back to life. I prayed like never before. Someone suggested that I had put my son’s life in God’s hands but I didn’t. I prayed for Liam to live. I was due. It was my right to have this child alive. I had done everything right. I had already given up one child. I would not give up this one! I would be a better mother but I would not give my son over to a Higher Power. He was my baby! I didn’t have time for tears. I didn’t have time for doubt. My baby was going to live. I would make it so. I had failed him and allowed him to get to this point. It was time for me to step up to the plate and fix him somehow. I was his mother. It was my job to protect him and keep him well.

Somehow time passed but I never let go of my son. I held onto him still willing him back to life. I don’t remember sleeping. Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. I just saw this limp little body filled with tubes everywhere. Nurses came in at various times to change the bag that was measuring his urine output and to check his blood glucose level. I was again told that they were giving him insulin but they could only give him small amounts at a time. It was important to slowly bring down his blood glucose level or he could have brain damage or a heart attack. A heart attack in a two year old--nothing could surprise me any more but this was not going to happen to my son. My will was strong and my baby was going to be okay. There would be no kidney damage. There would be no brain damage. I was going to have my Liam back.

Morning finally came. The nurses let me use their washroom to freshen up. It was the first time I had moved all night. I didn’t stay away for long. My husband and other son had slept in the waiting room. We all continued to wait.

Time had lost all meaning. Praying, will, that was all that we could do and it paid off. My baby began to stir for the first time in days. I was ecstatic! He was alive! He was not pleased to have all of these tubes attached to him. He tried to pull things out and slowly we were able to have some of them removed.

I would later learn that I was not alone that night as I prayed at his bedside. Prayers were being said across the country and even across the US. Family and friends were contacting others and asking that people remember us. My mom later told me that even my brother and his friends were praying for his namesake. My brother is a big, 6’2”, 200 plus pound, tattooed boy. It was hard to picture him and his friends praying but I was glad to take all of the help that I could. I am not a religious person but I know that all of that love sent to us that day did not go astray. It brought my baby back to me.

By the next day we were finally able to call family and tell them that he had made it through the worst. My son was moved back to the Paediatric floor. I was so happy. Nothing could change the fact that my child was still alive! I could tackle anything. My mom was over the moon. She had had enough of calling people and telling them that Liam was in critical condition. She said it was hard to keep it together when talking to family and they were losing it on the other end of the phone. It was not a job she ever wanted to have again. She said that calling to tell everyone that Liam was alive and over the worst would be a joy.

Once we were settled into his room our new doctor arrived to discuss his prognosis. Dr. VanGelder told us, “Liam has Type 1 diabetes. His blood glucose level was over seven times the normal amount. He will need to have insulin injections for the rest of his life. He may have issues of impotence in adulthood because this disease will attack his small blood vessels such as those in the penis. Life will never be the same but you will be alright. I will be here whenever you need me.”

It has been close to ten years since I have heard those words and I can still see the doctor standing in the doorway telling us this information. I have no idea why some of those details struck me but they did. I can still hear another calm voice inside my head. It just kept saying that this is why I was here. This was my purpose in life. I had had a dream before all of this. I would travel, life would change, and we would be protected. This was obviously what the dream meant. Meanwhile Dr. VanGelder continued to speak and I didn’t understand all of what he was telling us. I would learn, but I just knew that one thing—this is what my life has led up to. My life would be about diabetes. This was my mission in life.

It is an odd reaction. I didn’t cry. I didn’t worry. I felt a sense of calm and understanding come over me. I knew my purpose for the first time. My son was alive. The rest didn’t matter. I would make a difference. I would fight this battle for the rest of my days or until I won. It was simple…or so I thought.

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