A Croupy Thanksgiving
Hallelujah!
Give thanks to the Lord, since he is good, for his gracious love exists
forever. Psalm 106:1
Thanksgiving has been my
favorite holiday since I was a child. It evokes warm memories of cinnamon rolls in the morning, a turkey cooking in an electric roaster, pumpkin and pecan
pies, but especially mom’s homemade noodles. She always made them the day
before, laying them out to dry on the kitchen table. If she let us, we helped
cut them into long strips on Thanksgiving morning.
Our extended family is small.
I have three sibling and with Mom and Dad, that always meant at least six
around the table. There were usually a handful of relatives that joined us,
bringing our small band of merriment up to around ten. But, more often than
not, a couple of church families joined us, and Mom always made sure to invite
an area serviceman who had nowhere to go on Thanksgiving.
After Patti and I started
our own family we hosted most of the same relatives in our Sacramento home. We
also invited friends and others we knew might be alone on that day full of
friends, family and good food. Our little nucleus of aunts, uncles and a single
cousin, as well as my siblings opened wide for those outside our family that
joined us at the table.
As a pastor, Thanksgiving
also provided some unique memories. Twice we spent the holiday with patients in
the hospital. One year we drove 165 miles, two and a half hours, from Devils
Lake, ND to Fargo to spend Thanksgiving with a parishioner in the hospital who
was facing cancer. Another time, pastoring in Washington State, we drove about
75 miles, stopped and picked up Thanksgiving dinner to go at a restaurant, and
joined another parishioner and his entire family for a lapfuls of turkey,
mashed potatoes and pie.
But the Thanksgiving that
is most significant for my family was in 1993. That was the years that our
surprise daughter was born. We already had two boys we loved dearly, Michael and
Jonathan, 13 and 10 respectively. Patti and I decided we were happy with our
family of four and took precautions to avoid further additions. But God had
other plans. Late in 1992 Patti and I found out we were expecting.
So, the boys, their mom
and I waited those long months for our new addition. As luck would have it, the
first sonogram wasn’t clear enough to identify the sex of this anticipated child.
Any elective sonograms were not covered by insurance. So, we would be surprised
on the day our Sarah was born (uhm, yes, the baby was a girl).
Born June 15, Sarah was a
source of joy for all of us. I could not believe God had given us the gift of a
daughter. After Patti gave birth and letting Mom have a bit of rest, Mike, Jon
and I hit up the local thrift store and bought all the girl baby clothes two
dollars and fifty cents could afford. (Ok, I’m lying about the amount. It might
have been $10.50).
That summer and early fall
we all took turns showing off baby Sarah Rochelle to our friends. Mike took her
to school, I took her to one of the “grandmas” on the reservation where we
pastored to receive a blessing, Patti glowed like I’ve never seen her before.
Jon loved holding her in his lap.
As summer turned to fall,
we began to look forward to our first Thanksgiving as a family of five. But,
two days before the Autumn feast Sarah came down with a high fever, raspy
cough, and her breathing was wheezy. It was clear she was sick and was
struggling to breathe. When her fever stayed at 103 degrees, we took her to the
doctor the next day.
We lived in New Town, ND,
a small town with a population of about 1500 at the time. It is situated on the
Forth Berthold Indian Reservation and in 1993 was a delightful mix of Anglo and
Native residents. It is no exaggeration to say that my soul thrived in the rural
but multi-cultural environment. But such a small town could not support a
hospital or medical center. We had regularly seen Dr. Herbert Wilson who had
served New Town since the mid-50s and retired in 1995.
But he was out of town on
this Thanksgiving eve and so his replacement, a soft-spoken Filipina doctor
looked out our 5-month-old baby. After listening to Sarah’s breathing and
taking her temperature, she concluded that Sarah had the croup. We didn’t know exactly
what that meant, but she described it as an irritation to the upper airways
that causes them to swell. The airway below the vocal cords become narrow, making
it difficult to breathe.
“I’ve seen babies with
croup go like that”, she said. Alarmed, both Patti and I felt blood rush
out of our faces. We asked immediately for an ambulance. Our doctor was efficient
and accommodating, making the call for the ambulance immediately. After a few
minutes she came back to us with bad news. “I’m sorry,” she said. “This is
Thanksgiving Eve; the entire EMS crew is out of town.” They, of course, were
all volunteer, and this particular year not one of them had stayed around for
the holiday.
I could feel the panic
rising in my body. This is my baby-girl. She needs an ambulance. The doctor
agrees. But there are no emergency workers. God, help! “What should we do?”
I asked.
“The only option is for
you to drive her. I’ll call ahead to the hospital.” That would be Trinity
Health in Minot, 75 miles away. And we wouldn’t be traveling fast. This particular
afternoon it was only five degrees above zero and threatening with snow.
“But, what about her breathing?”
Patti and I were scared. We had no doubt about driving her, but if they can “go
like that”, there must be something else we can do. Our resourceful doctor
looked around the office, grabbed an oxygen tank and gave it to us. Of course,
the mask was for an adult. It wouldn’t work for an infant. She went into
another room and came back with a small Dixie cup, pushed the tubing through
the bottom and created an ersatz baby-sized breathing mask. “Someone will have
to hold it against her face,” she instructed.
We thanked her profusely,
packed our precious baby girl into the back of the car and hurried home to pick
up the boys. We hurried them out to the car, and as we drove out of town Patti
instructed them both about keeping the cup on their sister’s face and mouth to
help her breath. I couldn’t help but check the rearview mirror almost every
minute to see how my back-seat trio was doing. The boys were taking their roles
seriously, helping their sister breathe.
Once we turned onto the highway,
I breathed a sigh of relief; the roads were clear. We could make good time, getting
to the hospital in a little over an hour. But, about halfway there Sarah
started wheezing again. Patti asked the boys if they still were holding the cup
to her face. Indeed, they were. But absent was the silent whoosh of flowing
oxygen. The tank was empty! None of us, the doctor included, realized there was
so little oxygen left in the tank.
I don’t remember when we
prayed. Or how many times, though in my mind I was asking God over and over to
help our little girl. But whether it was before or after realizing we had no
more oxygen, I asked the boys and Patti to lay their hands on Sarah and we
prayed that God would heal her and would help us get her to the hospital
safely.
Just as the doctor
promised, a medical team was awaiting us at the hospital. Quickly taking Sarah’s
vitals, the nurses put her in a room. The crib was large and covered with an
oxygen tent. Patti tenderly placed her in the crib and Sarah began to settle
in. Her breathing became less labored and we looked at the little girl we had
fallen in love with over the last five months.
Emotions rose and fell.
Tears welled in our eyes, but gratefulness filled our hearts that, for now, she
was safe. We felt a sense of relief that Sarah arrived at the hospital without incident.
I was deeply proud of Mike and Jon for taking charge of her care as we drove. We
stayed in the room together until late that Thanksgiving Eve. Dining on
hospital food, we kept a watchful eye on Sarah.
Hospitals usually do not
have accommodations for patient families. Of course, Patti wanted to stay the
night in Sarah’s room, which was graciously allowed. Large enough to accommodate
a mom and baby, Patti snuggled close to Sarah in the crib from occasionally during
the night, although permitted for only a few moments at a time. Making sure
that Patti was settled for the evening, the boys and I drove to a nearby motel
for the night.
We stayed up fairly late,
watched some television, then all of us fell into a well-needed sleep. The next
day was Thanksgiving. We thought we would get up, drive through McDonald’s and
get ourselves and Patti breakfast, then spend the rest of the day in the
hospital room, hoping the medical center cooks knew how to prepare a good
turkey.
But, unfortunately, those
plans did not materialize. When I got up Thanksgiving morning and looked out
the window everything was white. Even our old used maroon Chevrolet was white.
The predicted snowstorm hit overnight, dumping over 10 inches within just a few
hours. I immediately called the hospital
and asked for Patti’s room.
It was good to hear her
voice. She sounded upbeat. She told me that Sarah’s fever had broken, and she
was no longer under the oxygen tent. “The doctor showed me her fever chart. You
won’t believe this, but the line is straight from 103 to normal from the time
she arrived.” I could not have been happier. I turned to the boys and gave a
big grin and “thumbs up.”
She told us the doctor wanted
to keep Sarah one more night. “He doesn’t want us to have to try to drive her home
in the bad weather. He said he would have released her today if the storm hadn’t
hit.” I told her we couldn’t get to the hospital and the boys and I would make
the best of it.
Fortunately, the hotel
served a continental breakfast, so we dined on cereal, donuts and bananas. One
of our favorite winter getaways in North Dakota was to stay at a hotel with a
pool and let the boys swim and play. But we left home more worried about Sarah
than swimsuits, so no swimming this time.
We passed our time
watching Thanksgiving television. I don’t remember specifics, but I am pretty
sure we caught the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade until I confiscated the
remote to watch football. I may have had to bribe Mike and Jon because neither
of them was ever very interested in football.
Noon rolled around and we
began to wonder what to do about lunch. We couldn’t drive anywhere yet; the
roads were impassable. The only delivery available in the 90s was pizza and
every pizza restaurant was closed for Thanksgiving. We were in walking distance
of a McDonald’s but, it too was closed. The hotel did not have a restaurant.
I didn’t panic right
away, but I started wondering if I would have to teach boys the value of
fasting as a spiritual exercise, even if it was for just one meal. Looking out
the window of our hotel room I noticed a gas station and convenience store. The
lights were on. They were open!
“Convenience store food?”
I asked the boys. What else could they answer? It was either “yes” and eat, or “no”
and fast (er, starve.) So, we bundled up in our parkas and snow boots traipsing
across the snow-covered parking lot toward the convenience store. We stepped
across half a dozen drifts and sank to our knees in a couple more. The snow was
blowing around us, the temperature was below 10 degrees and we were the only
people trekking across the hoary landscape.
The lights from the store
pierced the snow like searchlights illuminating the tiny shards of ice in the
air. We pushed open the door and the clerk half stared at us as we walked into
the welcome warmth. We were his only customers so far that day. We snaked up
and down the aisles, searching for Thanksgiving fare.
I know turkey sandwiches
are quasi-traditional after the big Thanksgiving feast, but they would have to
do for our main meal that day. I told the boys to pick out a couple of
sandwiches and some snacks, not knowing if we would be on our own for supper or
not. So, with our arms loaded with sandwiches, chips, beef jerky and bottles of
pop we laid the all on the register. I told the clerk this was our Thanksgiving
dinner and briefly related the story of Sarah and the croup. He laughed with us
as we paid him.
Retracing our steps, we went
back to our hotel room and enjoyed our little cache of food. We were fortunate
that by early evening the local roads were clear, and we were able to go to the
hospital, spending the evening with Patti and Sarah. We stayed until late
evening and returned to our room while the girls spent one more night at the
hospital. It was so good to see Sarah breathing well, active and playful. Patti’s
face was full of relief. Strangely, this would turn out to be one of my
favorite Thanksgivings of all.
Around 10 the next
morning I called the State Roads department and discovered that the highway was
clear from Minot to New Town. We drove to the hospital just as they were
releasing Sarah. I hurried back down to the parking lot to pull the car up to
the entrance to provide a short and somewhat warmer walk to for my clan.
As stressful as the
previous days had been, as anxious as we felt, our hearts were light as we
traveled home. We were thankful for a caring doctor in New Town who helped us
get Sarah to the hospital safely. We were glad the physician at the hospital cared
enough about our safety to keep Sarah an extra night. We even were grateful for
saran-wrapped convenience store sandwiches. But, above all, this day after
Thanksgiving, we reveled in the gracious answer to our prayer, that God had
taken care of our baby girl.
And, 26 years later, I’m
also thankful for those two and a half days. It is one of the slices of time in
which we were the best family we could be. We helped each other, worried
together, prayed together, found creative solutions and, more than ever, appreciated
the 70-mile ride home in North Dakota winter weather.
