A Croupy Thanksgiving

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.