My heart sank.  Until this moment, I had clung to my faith in modern medicine.  I was convinced she would recover.  I had refused to listen to the dire predictions of the various Doctors, stubbornly ignoring the sad and hopeless looks, and grim set faces.  The moment that Doctor McBride pronounced that they had done all they could, I began to prepare myself for my daughter’s death.  My heart sank as I accepted the reality that it wasn’t a matter of if my daughter would die, but when will she die.  I was determined to put on a brave face and see it through, while making sure that she knew she was loved.   I wanted to spend every moment with her that I could, not wanting her to be alone during her last hours on earth.  I knew that her only chance at life was a very slim one, one that the majority of people don’t live long enough to receive.  I wasn’t going to cling to that small chance, but prepare myself for the probability of loosing her soon.  The wheels were set in motion, forms were signed, and it was a matter of time before she was moved to yet another hospital.   They let us go in and see her one final time.  It felt like we were telling her goodbye for good, and not just sending her off for another helicopter flight. 

We hurried to the car, frantically digging out our cell phones to notify key people of the transfer.  My eyes were constantly scanning the roof of the hospital to watch the helicopter lift off.  I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing a helicopter lift off with her only 36 hours after seeing it for the first time.  Yet, I couldn’t stand the thought of not seeing it, either.  Rhonda sped through the streets of downtown Fort Worth, as I tried to keep an eye on the helicopter.  It was overcast and drizzly, or maybe that is just my mind’s way of matching my emotional state to my memories.   Anxiety gripped everyone in the van as we crept across Fort Worth and Dallas on I-30.  Upon reaching the hospital, we tumbled out as quickly as we could, racing up to the sixth floor and into the CVICU unit.  Unlike the quiet darkness of the CVICU at Harris, this one was brightly lit and spacious.  Instead of curtained off cubicles, each patient had a glass room.  Curtains could be pulled around the beds for privacy.  We were informed that the helicopter hadn’t landed yet, but we needed to go and have her admitted. 

Waiting for the elevator, a tall friendly man introduced himself as John Hyde.  He told us to follow him.  He led us out the elevator door, out the hospital door, and directly to the front of the hospital where the helicopter had just landed.  Then he looked at us and said, “go see her”, and we hurried across the parking lot as fast as we could.  Seeing them unload her from the helicopter was such a relief.  They had her supporting her own breathing tube, with a hand on her chest.  She saw us and wiggled her fingers in a feeble wave.  Her eyes were wide open, and she was watching everything.  We walked alongside the gurney holding her hand as they wheeled her into the hospital, and up the elevator and into the CVIVU.   She lay there watching her surroundings, and making eye contact with me.  Touching her hand and stroking her arm gently was a confirmation that she was still alive and fighting.  I felt revitalized and ready to help her fight this battle for her life.  I realized I couldn’t give up quite so quickly, and my determination to see this through was building.

The nurses quickly settled her in bed L in the CVICU.  We were allowed to come see her soon afterward.  It was explained to us that even though there were posted visiting times, since she was a minor we were allowed to come visit any time we wanted to, with the exception of shift change.  Nurses and technicians hustled in and out of her room.   There were huge bright windows, with the curtains wide open.  Behind her bed was a metal framework from floor to ceiling; built into it were the ever present heart monitor, aspirators, and other mysterious medical devices.    Beside her bed was the respirator that kept my daughter breathing.  She appeared very alert and seemed to be absorbing everything going on around her.  I wanted desperately to be right by her side.  I was feeling that motherly instinct to protect my child, yet I knew that I was helpless and at the mercy of all these people.  A woman in a white lab coat and a friendly smile came in and introduced herself to Charis as Katie, the nurse practitioner from Dr. Baldwin’s office.  She explained that she was going to do an initial evaluation of Charis for a transplant.  She directed most of her comments to Charis, and asked me a few questions.  She was very expertly drawing Charis into being involved in, and knowledgeable about her own condition.  Then she explained to me that there would be a whole battery of tests performed within the next few hours on Charis.  We were asked to leave while they worked on her. 

In the waiting room, we sat and stared at each other, and prayed together for the life of our daughter.  We contacted family and friends, and I called my workplace again.  They were constantly clamoring for updates, and offering all sorts of help.  I had quickly realized that every call I needed to make was long distance, so I asked for phone cards.  I called my next-door neighbor, who was in tears.  She begged me to be allowed to help with something.  I swallowed my pride and stammered “well, uh, we kind of got up and left with food still on the table and….”  She interrupted me with a very quick offer to clean my kitchen, and take care of things at my house.  I looked up as my ex-husband and his wife walked into the waiting room.  I offered to take him back to see Charis.  We visited with her for a few minutes. 

On our way back out to the waiting room, a big bear of a man stopped us and introduced himself as Doctor Baldwin.  He asked us to sit down and began to talk about Charis.  I turned and asked a nurse to go get my husband so he could hear this, too.  Dr. Baldwin began to share what his own personal hypothesis was about what happened to Charis.  At that time, he was thinking she had a spontaneous dissection of her aorta, which caused the coronary artery to shut down.  Her heart was damaged approximately 85%, and was unlikely to recover any more than it had at this point.  He very bluntly explained that the only course of action available to save her life was a heart transplant.  He referred to her as “the sickest girl in ICU”, and told us that she couldn’t be any sicker and still be living.  Hopelessness began to try to set in as he explained that normally the process of getting someone on the transplant list took several weeks.  Then he told us that all the tests and procedures would be rushed along for her, because of her otherwise good health, her age and her extremely grave condition.  I was thinking it would take several days. 

Tests were being performed at a regular rate on her, so Drew decided to hunt up the closest Taco Bell for dinner.  Rhonda went to find out about the guest rooms downstairs, and I nervously took up residence in the waiting room.   I visited with other families in the waiting room; completely unaware of the bond I would form with them in the coming days.  Drew came back with a huge bag of food, and Rhonda came back with a key to a guest room for us.  Around 7:00, Drew and I went back to see her, and Dr. Baldwin informed us that she had just been placed on the list as a 1A.  We did a double take!  What we thought would take a few days, had taken 5 hours!  The Dr. explained that she was so serious that the speed was necessary.   We questioned him about the length of time to expect to wait.  He avoided our questions, quoting facts and statistics instead.  The state of Texas was divided in a strange manner, and the heart for Charis would have to come from the area that St. Paul was a part of.  Her 1A status would get her the first available heart of her blood type.  Doctor Baldwin was amazed that in spite of the seriousness of her heart attack, the massive damage done, and the amount of time with almost no blood flow; that her neurological function was not affected.  He told us many times over the next weeks that teenagers that suffer heart attacks normally die.  Over and over he expressed his surprise that she hadn’t “died on her way to the ground”. 

We were celebrating and yet we were holding our breath as we watched her monitors, and listened to the rhythm of the respirator.  We stood beside her bed and held her hand and talked to her.  I watched as she looked around her room, taking in every detail.  She pointed to her nurse and then pointed to a white board on the wall, on which the name “Laura” was written.  She was introducing us to her nurse.  I hovered by her bed as I watched the day darken outside her window.  I was terrified to talk to her, afraid of saying something I shouldn’t, and not knowing what to say.  So I just held her hand and tried not to let her see how worried and scared I was.  It was my job to be supportive and strong for her.  We were on an unstoppable freight train now, the question was, which track would it take? 

Late that night, we dragged ourselves down the hallways.  We were already learning the twists and turns of another hospital.  Rhonda had rented a guest room in the hospital.  A common bathroom connected two small hotel type rooms.  My ex-husband was assigned one room, and Drew and I had the other.  Even though the bed was a twin-sized one, we were so exhausted that we fell asleep almost immediately.  On the bedside table were two cell phones, sitting there plugged in and waiting for a call.

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Introduction