Is Jesus Still Healing?

Affiliate link for this book: Christ the Healer, Bosworth

Does God still want to physically heal as Jesus did?

Does God change?

Are Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and God the Father not ONE?

Do they not have the SAME will?

Did Jesus not demonstrate the will of the entire Godhead when He healed all?

Be encouraged, friends. God has not changed. God the Father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit are ONE. One heart. One mind. One purpose. One character. One name. One will.

He is still saving, healing, and delivering RIGHT. NOW. I've seen it with my own eyes. Hallelujah!

I'm reading this book right now and it's taking SO long to get through it. Not because it's a hard read - it's very easy to read. It's taking me forever because I find myself stopping to underline half the book!

Today's big takeaway that's making me stop to chew and digest truth:

"If sickness, as some think, is the will of God for His faithful children, then it is a sin for them even to desire to be well. This says nothing of spending thousands of dollars to defeat His purpose."

"If sickness is the will of God...every physician is a lawbreaker; every trained nurse is defying the Almighty; every hospital is a house of rebellion, instead of a house of mercy. If this were true, instead of supporting hospitals, we out to do our utmost to close every one."

"If the modern theology of those who teach that God wants some of His worshipers to remain sick for His glory is true, then Jesus, during His earthy ministry, never hesitated to rob the Father of all the glory He could by healing all who came to Him. The Holy Spirit, likewise, robbed Him of all the glory He could by healing all the sick in the streets of Jerusalem. And Paul, too, robbed God of all the glory he could by healing all the sick on the island of Melita."

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ITP: Idiopathic Thrombocytopenic Purpura

For all of you who who have been following along on my recent series about Samantha's health concerns, you can ignore this post.

This post is for those folks who type "ITP" into Google, looking for information or for other people dealing with the condition.   Hopefully, my straightforward title will help those people find me.  

We had quite the journey through ITP with our infant daughter.  Did you just get a diagnosis of ITP and are wondering what to expect next?  If you're interested in our story, you can find it here.  

I hope that you'll be reassured and encouraged...maybe even blessed.  And if you're looking for a fellow parent who's been where you are now, please feel free to click "Contact Me" over there on the left under my photo to drop me an email. 

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Giving Up My Samantha, Part 4

Click here for Part 1

Click here for Part 2

Click here for Part 3

Once again, we sat in that dreaded exam room and received bad news about our little Samantha's platelet count.  I had come to genuinely hate Sammy's doctor.  He was an expert in his field.  His hands were gentle whenever they touched her.  He spoke in a soft matter-of-fact sort of way...the only way you can speak when saying the kinds of terrible words that always seemed to spill from his lips.  It was those words - those words that seemed to suck the life and hope right out of me - those damned words...they were the reason I'd come to hate this man sitting before me.

I was in the room with the doctor and Luke (my husband).  I can't remember where Samantha was.  Was she even in the room?  If she was, Luke must have been holding her.  Maybe she was in the waiting room with my parents.  I don't know.  All I really remember during that meeting was a rage that seemed to make me literally see red.  I paced my little corner of that confining room, and mustered up all of my strength to keep my hands from wrapping around that doctor's throat.  If I could just squeeze the life out of him...maybe it would keep him from saying those horrible things about my baby.

"Cancer"

"Blood"

"Treatment"

"Risks with this test"

"Uncertainty"

"Bone marrow"

"Drill into the bone"

"Course of action"

Bastard.  Shut your mouth.

"The only way to know the cause of Samantha's ITP is to do a bone marrow biopsy.  If she had responded more dramatically to the treatments we've already given her, then we could be fairly certain that we're not dealing with a cancer of the bone marrow.  But since she didn't, we need to test her.  Of course, if it is cancer, then we'll need to start her on an appropriate treatment.", He said.

Luke sat on the chair by the window and asked, "What's involved with this bone marrow test?"

"Well, with her being so little, we'll put her in a conscious-sedated state.  It's not a full anesthesia, so she'll be able to breathe on her own.  It will be like she's in a very deep sleep, and she will not remember a thing.

Once she's under, we'll drill a hole into the back of her hip bone and remove some of her bone marrow.  We'll be able to tell very quickly if there's cancer.  It's just a matter of looking at the cells under a microscope.  We'll know the results before Samantha even wakes up.

There are risks, of course.  Risks of infection, risks of complications with the anesthesia, risks..."

I paced and sobbed and closed my eyes.  "I can't hear this.  I CAN'T LISTEN TO THIS.  Just do it.  Get it done with.  Get it over!", I spat at him through clenched teeth.

"I know that this is difficult, but I need to know that you understand all of this so that you can give me informed consent.  I need you to sign these papers to give me permission to do this procedure."

"Understand?  You want me to UNDERSTAND?  I understand.  I hear you loud and clear.  You want to knock out my baby with drugs, then you want to DRILL A $#@% HOLE  in her back, then you want to be able to tell me if she has cancer or not.  I get it okay?  Just stop, give me the damned papers, and get it scheduled.  I have to get OUT of here.  NOW."

He gave an exasperated sigh.  I felt like I was an irritation to him.  He dealt with death and dying all the time.  He saw kids far more sick that my Sammy.  But I didn't care.  I didn't care what he thought of me anymore.  I didn't care if my suffering didn't rank in his top 10 worst cases...I just wanted our lives back from a couple of months earlier.  I wanted to worry about things like diaper rashes and teething pain.  I wanted to be irritated by having to empty the dishwasher 3 times in one day.  I wanted to feel overwhelmed by piles of laundry...not overwhelmed by the prospect of losing my precious baby girl.

He calmly continued with his list of risks - looking at my husband and seeming to have just abandoned rational conversation with me.  It was fine with me.  I didn't want to talk to him either.  He finished his little speech and gave us papers to sign.  I scribbled something on the line, and stormed out of the room.

Now that I'm to this point in the story, I remember that Sammy was in the waiting room with my Mom and Dad.  I remember walking out into the waiting room, gathering everyone up, and making arrangements for Samantha's bone marrow biopsy.  Was it that very day?  I'm not sure.  I think so.

The next part of this journey that I can remember clearly is walking into the procedure room at the hospital with my baby.  She was wide awake, but getting irritable because it was almost time for her nap.

We had the choice to either leave Sammy in the hands of the experts and wait in the waiting room for the results, or we could stay in the room with them while they did the procedure.  I was not leaving my baby.  I didn't care how horrible it would be to witness. I didn't care if she would be asleep an unaware of my presence.  I was not leaving her to go through this by her little self.  

Oh.  As I write this my stomach is in knots.  I can FEEL what I felt as I held by little girl and glanced over at the table that contained that horrible cork-screw type tool.  

Oh Lord, I can't do this.  Please hold me up.  I can't do this.

I stood there holding my baby with the tubes sticking out of her arm.  They had started the IV at the doctor's office (thankfully they didn't have to put it in her head this time), so it was just a matter of injecting some medicine into the tube for her to be knocked out.

Mom and Dad and Luke sat on the bench by the window.

I used the table to undress Samantha down to her diaper.  

Then I picked her up and cradled her in my arms while someone injected her IV line with the anesthesia.  Sammy lay cradled in my arms just as she always had at nap time.  I whispered quietly to her as I always did when I put her to sleep,

"Now I lay me down to sleep."

          Oh Lord, help.

"I pray the Lord my soul keep."

          I know you're watching over her Lord.  Please save her.

"If I should die before I wake,"

          Please, no.  Please don't let her die.  Please heal her.

"I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen"

Samantha's eyes were locked on mine as I prayed over her.  As the medicine took effect, her beautiful blue eyes fluttered closed, and her body went limp.  I paused for a moment to feel her rhythmic breathing.  I knew I was supposed to turn around and place her little body on that table, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.            

Lord, are you there?  I can't do this.  Please.  She's yours.  I can't save her.  I can't heal her.  I can't protect her.  Please Lord.  We need you.  She needs you.  I need you.

You have to give her up, Daiquiri.  Lay her on the table now.  Lay her in my arms.  Trust me.

Oh Lord, I don't know what else to do.  Here.  She's yours I know she is.  I know she always was yours.  Please.  Help her.

As I turned to place her limp little body on that table, I felt how Abraham must have felt when he prepared Isaac for the impossible sacrifice that God had asked of him.  

Please, Lord.  Please let there be a ram in the thicket for us.

I closed my eyes, and lay her soft little body tummy down on the paper covered table.  Snapshots of her life flashed through my mind's eye.

Her beautiful joyful smile.

How she loved to splash in the bathtub.

Snuggling her and singing endless rounds of "Skinny-ma-rinky Dinky-dink, Skinny-ma-rinky Doo, I love you" while she smiled and giggled at me.

Her first swimsuit and how beautiful she always was.

Her incredible smile and contagious joy.  Strangers were always stopping us on the street and chatting with my chubby little Sammy.  She left a smile on everyone's face who came across her path.

With my eyes still closed, and my hand resting on her little back, I gave her up in that moment.  She was never mine in the first place, I knew that.  But I had never really trusted the Lord with her either.

I sat on the bench next to my husband and I watched the doctor perform that brutal procedure on my baby girl.  They cleaned her skin with orange antiseptic, and then the doctor picked up that cork-screw type tool.  And yes, I sat there while he twisted it into my baby girl's back.  I was horrified and scared.  My Dad spoke calmly and lovingly while he reassured me that Sammy couldn't feel a thing....that she wasn't scared...that she wasn't in pain.  I remember him saying that this is "much harder on you than it is on her".  You can say that again!  

Yes, I was terrified and it pained me to see what they were doing to her body.  But that's not why I was crying.

I was crying at the pain and the fear...not of cancer...but of giving my Samantha fully and totally to the Lord.  Is He trustworthy?  Yes.  Is He capable?  Of course.  But did I like having my crazy little "I'm in control of everything" bubble popped with the painful prick of reality that is the powerfulness of my God?  No.  It hurt, and it was scary. 

The doctor took the "sample", sent it off to the lab, and proceeded to stitch and bandage Samantha.  The lab called and the doctor reported the good news: "The sample looks clean.  It does not appear to have cancer.  We'll run some more extensive tests, but you can rest a whole lot easier now."

Oh Lord.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

Samantha's platelet count was curiously low for months...and then it started to rise all by itself.  Whatever had been going on in her body that made her count low was ending.  The last time we had her tested, her numbers were well in the 200-300 range.  

I sometimes wonder what caused Sammy's ITP.  Was it just a viral reaction gone bad?  Or was it cancer?  Did Samantha have cancer, and was her body healed as our church elders prayed over her and anointed her with oil?  Did Samantha have cancer, and was she healed in that moment that I placed her in God's arms?  Did God provide us with that ram in the thicket after all?

We'll never know (this side of Heaven, anyway).  Honestly, I don't really care.  God provided, that's all I know. 

I wish I could say that from that day on I've trusted the Lord with my whole life and most precious blessings.  But my nature is what it is.  I'm a sinner.  I tend to try and do things on my own and fool myself into thinking that I'm in control, that I'm taking care of us, and that I can do things to keep everyone safe and healthy.  It's a daily struggle for me to "give up my Samantha"...and my Ben, and my Clara, and my Thomas, and my Luke...and myself for that matter.

It will be a battle I fight until the day I die.

And when I finally do die and come face to face with my Lord who provided for my daughter that day?  I'll know.  I'll finally know how silly it was to try and control anything...to even want to control anything.  I'll feel his embrace and I'll know that in his arms is the best place to be, and that he's perfectly trustworthy...perfectly able to provide in ways that I certainly can't.

In the mean time, I'll do my best to live with hope and by faith in the only one capable of holding me together.  The only one capable of being my Prince of Peace.

"Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess,

 for he who promised is faithful." 

Hebrews 10:23

Sammy ~ 1 year and all better ~ Praise God!

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Giving Up My Samantha, Part 3

Click here for Part 1

Click here for Part 2

We left the hospital with our precious babe, assured that she wasn't going to have a spontaneous internal hemorrhaging problem.  Boy, I had sure taken the problems associated with teething and baby constipation for granted until then!

Samantha's platelet count had thankfully climbed up in to the 20,000 range.  Still not within the normal rage of 150,000 to 300,000, but safer than the 5,000 mark that she had been at.  I hoped beyond hope that the slight increase we saw was an indicator that her ITP was not caused by a bone marrow cancer.

But I was left wondering, if not cancer...what?  What caused this potentially fatal problem?  I started doing some research, and just generally became probably the most persistent and irritating parent Sammy's doctors had ever encountered.  I'm just not the type to sit by while taking the advice of the experts.  As a kid, I remember disassembling the little bell on my yellow banana-seat bike because I just had to see how it worked.  Once again I found myself having to know...how? why?

ITP can be caused by three different things, I learned:  

1.  Cancer of the bone marrow, which results in the body not producing enough platelets.

2.  A chronic condition where the bone marrow just doesn't work quite adequately.  It doesn't produce enough platelets, but the marrow isn't necessarily cancerous.  If that were Sammy's case, this would be something she'd live with for the rest of her life (like all other people with chronic ITP).  It was a satisfactory explanation for me, but I was left with more questions than answers about the quality of her life.  Would she be able to participate in sports?  Drive a car?  Have a baby?  

3.  A virus.  There is not a particular ITP virus, but a viral infection can sometime confuse the immune system.  The immune system fights the virus...but instead of turning itself off when the virus is gone, it turns on the platelets instead.  The blood is at war with itself - the white blood cells attacking the platelets.  The result is a lowered platelet count.  In this case, it's typically a one time life event, and it never happens again.

I had no question about which option I hoped we were dealing with!  I prayed and prayed that it was #3...but if it was, it should have responded differently to the treatment she had in the hospital.  Maybe since she was so little the treatment just didn't work as quickly?  I hoped...

We went in weekly for blood draws.  I still found myself parking in the parking lot of that cancer center and thinking, "I can't believe we're here".  And that song..."Hold Me Jesus"...it haunted me day and night.  It was my constant companion and prayer.

I don't mean to make it sound like I did this myself.  My dear, sweet husband was right there too.  He'd have loved to stay the night in the hospital with his baby girl, but since I was nursing I stayed with her and he cared for our older kids at home.  I don't deny that I was happy for the excuse to stay with her.  I couldn't have left her even in the loving and capable arms of her daddy.

We also had lots of visits from Sammy's aunts, uncles, grandparents and our friends.  We were surrounded by love and support.

But when you're going through something like that, it's almost like it doesn't matter who's there and who's not (no offense to those of you who were so wonderful).  I think that no matter the number of people there, it feels a bit like you're on an island.  Only it's not a deserted island.  You have lots of company...you know...the fear, the doubt, the nightmares are right there all the time. 

At first, it seemed that her platelet count was rising.  She made it up to the 20's, then the 30's, then the 40's.  But then, I remember a blood draw that was particularly hard to stop the bleeding again.  I slumped into my seat holding my baby, and just cried.  I knew before the results were back that her numbers would be down.  Sure enough.  Back down into the 10's again.

The doctor recommended another treatment.  It would be an outpatient treatment....just some drugs through and IV.  We decided to go for it.  But at the back of my mind, all I could think was, "Why didn't it work?  They said that if it wasn't cancer, it should have worked.  Please, Lord.  Please don't take my baby." 

We went into the cancer center for Sammy's second treatment.  First, there was the torture of trying to get an IV started my squirmy little baby.  They tried her arm.  Then her other arm.  Then her wrist.  Then her ankle.  Then the called in an IV expert (boy was I pissed off by then), and he placed one IN HER HEAD.  They assured me that it was no different than putting it in her arm, but it sure seemed more barbaric to me.  I was horrified.  He got it placed on the first try though, so I quickly resigned myself to just being relieved that the pokes were over for my little girl.  They had to wrap each of her hands with tape to keep her from using her fingers to pull out the IV.  Here we are during treatment....as you can see, she's covered with the purple tape from all the various IV attempts:

The treatment itself was uneventful.  We sat and sang and cuddled while her IV was hopefully filled with some sort of miracle that would make her all better.

We wouldn't know for another week at the next blood draw...this treatment was not a success either.  Weekly tests continued to return disappointing results. Her numbers were just not coming up.

We had to face the very real possibility that our baby girl had cancer.  

It was nearly impossible for me to attend church during this time in our lives.  It was pointless anyway, I couldn't concentrate on a sermon to save my life.  All I could think  and pray was "Save her, Lord" and the constant repetitive plea of "Please.  Please.  I beg of you.  Please."

We did go to church once though, because I clearly remember the worship portion of the service.  I was standing there holding little Sammy and singing along to the songs, when the worship leader started a new song.  The building rose with the voices of the faithful singing "I Surrender All".  And my tears started.  I had to sit down and just hold my baby and cry...and cry some more.

I just kept thinking "Oh Lord.  I can't!  I can't give her up!  I can't surrender all.  I'm so sorry.  I know you deserve my trust, but Lord I'm just so scared.  I'm sorry I can't surrender her.  Please don't make me.  Please don't take her."

It was a low point in my walk with the Lord, for sure.  I felt like I was letting Him down.  I felt like I was letting Sammy down with my weak faith.  I even feared divine punishment or something for my inability to "surrender all".  I was brought face to face with just how much I trusted...and didn't trust the Lord.  

Even so, I wanted to do all I could to help my baby girl.  I pored over my Bible looking for some sort of "How to heal" passage.  I had read the New Testament, and knew that was I was looking for didn't exist..but maybe I had missed it?  I wasn't exactly in the rightest of minds, I realize.  I was desperate and terrified.

I did come across James 5:14 though: "Is any one of you sick?  He should call the elders of the church to pray over him and anoint him with oil in the name of the Lord."

I called the church office to inquire.  Sure enough...I made an appointment for our church's elders to come to the house to bless Samantha.

I spent that day cleaning and praying for a miracle.  I was also nervous for Samantha.  She had justifiably become quite afraid of strangers.  No wonder, since practically everyone she encountered stuck her with a needle!  I feared that she would just get worked into a panic at the arrival of the elders.

They arrived one by one...I think there were about 5 in all that day.  We sat in the living room while we explained Sammy's situation to them, and told them our fears of cancer.  They asked what we'd like to pray for specifically.  That was easy...peace, comfort, and most of all a miraculous healing.  I may not have trusted Him completely, but I did have faith that He could heal her if it was His will.

I sat on the floor with Sammy next to me.  The elders and my husband gathered around us, and they all placed their hands on her pale little body.  Instead of fear, a peace flooded the room.  I closed my eyes to pray, but I couldn't help but sneak a peek to see the expression on Samantha's face.  There she was, quiet and still as could be...just looking at all the strange men surrounding her.  She didn't show even a hint of fear...just curiosity and peace...even a little grin from time to time as if we were playing a game with her.  She sat quietly while they prayed for her and anointed her with oil.

We continued with the weekly blood draws, and we were continually disappointed. Did God have plans for Samantha that we didn't want?  

The time had finally come to find out if Sammy had cancer. We had to know.  Not just to satisfy our curiosity, but to begin treatments to try and save our little girl's life if necessary.

Would it be necessary?  Only time...and a horrifying bone marrow biopsy would tell...

UPDATE:  Click here for Part 4

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These Eyes...

...steal my heart every time.  

For those of you who are new to this blog because of my recent "Giving Up My Samantha" posts, I feel a clarification is in order.  Please know that Sammy is okay.  You've been so sweet and concerned.  I'm certainly not turning your prayers away (I'll always welcome prayer for my little ones) - but her crisis is past, and as far as we know she's not in danger because of ITP today.

I've finally finished Part 3 of this little series (who knew...I was just going to sit and tell you real quick about our ITP experience and all this STUFF just came pouring out of my mind and heart over the past couple weeks!).  It's set to post on Monday.  

I'm thinking there will be one last part (part 4) to finish up telling you about our little adventure in faith.  

Thanks again for your concern :)

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Giving Up My Samantha, Part 2

Click here for Part 1

We waited in the office for the doctor to give us the results of the blood work.  Samantha and I were both starving.  She was accustomed to her cereal and fruit, so my milk wasn't quite cutting it for her anymore.  We sat in that room and nursed and cuddled and prayed- that's how the doctor found us when he walked in to give us the news.

"I'm admitting Samantha to the hospital right now.  But first I have some questions that you must be very honest about, okay?"

"Admitting her to the hospital?"

"Has she fallen an hit her head recently?  Please think carefully, I need to know."

"Well, um...she's learning to cruise a bit.  I can't remember any specific instance, but she might have bumped her head.  She also bumped into the coffee table - that's why she has this bruise on her forehead."

He quickly looked into her eyes, inspected her head, checked her reflexes.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?  Why are you admitting her to the hospital?  What did the blood work say?"

With a heavy sigh, the doctor stopped his inspection of Samantha.  "Well, she seems to have not hit her head too hard.  We'll pass on the scan for now."

"Stop.  Tell me what you're talking about.  Tell me right now."

"Sorry.  I had to just check her to make sure there isn't something going on in her brain.  She has a dangerously low platelet count.  Do you know what platelets are and what they do?"

"They're a part of her blood, right?"

"Right. They're the part of her blood that is responsible for clotting.  That's why they had to wrap her arm up in that giant bandage after a simple needle poke.  Her body should have clotted that off almost immediately, but it didn't.  It's also why she has these red dots all over her body.  Those dots are not a rash, they are petechiae ("pah-teek-ee-ah").  They are tiny little bleeding spots just under the surface of her skin. "

"So what does this mean?  Does she have cancer?"

"Well, I don't know yet.  Cancer is a possibility.  Your blood is manufactured in your bone marrow, so a cancer of the bone marrow could lead to a low platelet count."

"Why are you admitting her to the hospital?"

"A normal platelet count is between 150,00 and about 350,000.  Samantha has 5,000.  Obviously, that's way too low.  At levels like that, we worry about internal bleeding.  That's why I asked you about hitting her head.  A minor bump of the head can result in very damaging or fatal bleeding in the brain.  In fact, at the low level she has right now, it might not even take a bump.  Internal bleeding could start spontaneously, and with her having so few platelets, we would not be able stop it."  He paused and looked me in the eye - searching to see if I heard and understood what he was saying.  I did.  He was talking about my baby dying - maybe right now, right here in my arms.  I held her and looked at her and willed her little body to fight and to not start to bleed.

Oh Lord, please help us.  Please don't make me give up my baby quite yet.  Hold me, Jesus.

"We have to admit her to get some meds going...hopefully they will help her platelet count rise.  For now, her diagnosis is ITP.  I'll call the escort to come and walk you through the tunnel to the hospital."  And he was off...

I later learned that ITP stands for "Idiopathic Thrombocytopenic Purpura".  Yeah, we stuck with ITP too!  "Idiopathic" basically means that they don't know what caused it, "Thrombocytopenic" refers to a low platelet count, and "Purpura" referrs to the bruising that typically comes with this disease.

So great, ITP that may be caused by cancer.  This can't be happening.  Just that morning we woke up a normal happy family, and now...cancer?  This just can't be happening.

The teenaged boy who was our hospital escort walked us through a maze of underground tunnels and doors to the hospital.  All I could think was "cancer".  

Well, and "Please, no.  I'm shaking like a leaf, Lord."

There was one bright ray of hope in the back of my mind, though.  When I was pregnant with Samantha, we made arrangements to bank her cord blood.  It was expensive, and we didn't really have the money.  But for some reason, it was very important to me.  Was this very situation the reason we banked that blood?

My thoughts were interrupted as we arrived at Samantha's room.  I was very thankful that I was still nursing her, because I was part of the package when it came to admitting her.  I got to stay with her 24/7, I could order food from the cafeteria, and I could sleep in her room with her.  When they told me this good news I remember thinking "Well, good because you sure as hell wouldn't get me to leave her here alone!"  

I get a bit feisty when my babies are threatened.

One of the worst parts of getting her settled into her room and on the necessary medication was getting the IV started.  Oh, that poor child.  The nurse had a heck of a time getting an IV started, but kept trying and trying. 

"Listen" I said loudly over my squirming and screaming baby girl, "I don't mean to be rude, but I don't have a whole lot in me right now enabling me to be polite, so I'm just going to speak my mind.  Get someone else to do this.  Right now.  I want your most experienced IV person.  You are not poking her again."

The poor nurse opened her mouth to protest, but when she looked at me face, she thought better of it.  She left quietly to find someone else.  The next nurse got it on the first try.  

I'm all for nurses learning, and practicing.  I also realize that I probably made that nurse feel or look bad.  But frankly (pardon my language), I just didn't give a crap about anything or anyone else but Samantha at that time.  Practice on someone else, lady.  I want the best for my baby, and I want it NOW.

They started the medicine via the IV, and then it was just a waiting game.  It was some pretty heavy duty medicine, so they had to check her frequently to make sure that she wasn't having a bad reaction.  Nobody slept well that night.  Sammy for all the checking on her they had to do, and me for all the crying and praying I had to do.  I had held it together for her all day, but when the sun went down and she was asleep for the night, that's when I got real with God.  That's when I did my crying, my begging, my bargaining.  

One of the most difficult parts of those first few days was the not knowing...not knowing the cause of her ITP, and fearing the worst.  The doc told us that if she reacted to the medicine they were giving her, then it was a good indicator that it was an ITP that was NOT caused by cancer.  Oh, please Lord, let her numbers come up with this treatment.

They tested her blood regularly to see how she was reacting.  Her numbers came up slightly.  She reacted, but not very dramatically...did that count?  Does it mean that she doesn't have cancer?  The doctor wouldn't say, but he didn't seem encouraged.

While on the pediatric oncology floor of the hospital, I saw and heard more than I ever wanted to.  The other families on that floor sort of kept to themselves - they probably felt like I did - like they didn't really care a whole lot about what was going on with anyone else...like they needed to conserve as much energy as possible to survive...like they needed to circle the wagons around their sick little one and just. get. through. this. damn. day.

So we didn't exactly chat with each other.  But I felt like I got to know people just by observation.  It was a strange thing, watching other families suffer.  There was an odd comparison going on - everyone stealing glances at other people's kids and wondering, "What do they have? Will they make it?  How is their family coping?  Is theirs better or worse than ours? "  

There was one family in particular.  The little boy was probably about 8 years old, and he clearly had cancer.  The bald head doesn't lie.  Neither does the mask to protect a weak immune system against germs.  Neither does the pained look on his parents' and older sisters' faces.

One day, I was standing to the side of the nurses station waiting for my doctor to finish his conversation with another doctor.  I didn't intent to over-hear, I just wanted to catch my doctor to ask him a question.  But then he held up the scan of someone's head, and you could clearly see the problem.  "It didn't work" the other doctor said in a hushed voice as he shook his head.  They were referring to "room 34"...the patient in room 34...that little boy.  They were at the end of their treatment options of him and they were talking about telling his family.

I walked away, my question forgotten, to cry for that family.  It's just not fair.  Why do some lose their babies, and why do some not?  Which would I be?

We stayed in the hospital for several days while Samantha had her treatment.  Her platelet levels went up to the point where she was a bit more safe...it was still not completely safe, but spontaneous hemorrhaging wasn't as much of a concern.  They sent us home with the instructions to keep a close eye on her and to rush her to the ER if she had a hard fall.  

Time would tell, they told us.  We were to go back in a week to have her tested again.  If the treatment worked, her platelet count would be on the rise.  If it didn't, it would be down again.  

If this treatment didn't work, we'd have to go to Plan B.  I didn't know exactly what Plan B was, but I was hoping against all hope that we wouldn't have to find out... 

Please, Lord.  Be my Prince of Peace.

UPDATE:  Click here for Part 3

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Giving Up My Samantha, Part 1

Sammy was a dream baby.  She didn't even cry when she was born - it was just seconds after she arrived, and there she was, looking around at all of us like, "Hey, how ya doing?  What's going on out here?"  She was actually frighteningly peaceful for this mama.  "Why isn't she crying?  Is she okay?  Is she breathing?  I have to see her, give her to me!"  Sure enough, she was just...peaceful.

The summer of 2006 was a busy one for our family.  We sold our house, we bought another, we moved, Ben broke his arm running down the hill in our new back yard, we traveled, my hubby's grandpa passed away.  It was just crazy busy.  Samantha was a trooper, as most babies are.  She was learning to sit up and even scoot around a tiny bit, although it was tough for her baby muscles to heft that little chubby baby body around.  Lean babies?  Not around here!  We like 'em chunky :)

We didn't really think anything of her bruises.  She was learning to scoot and cruise, after all.  She was bumping her head and falling and just generally getting beat up by the process.  We expected some "owies".

And then she developed what appeared to be a diaper rash.  It was a strange rash though.  I put some Desitin on it, and went on about my days.

And then the diaper rash spread.  It spread to her legs, her back, her tummy, and her....face and arms?  It was clear that this was no diaper rash.  What was going on?

Hubby and I still joke about the conversation the followed.  We were sitting at the kitchen table.  I can remember vividly where we were sitting, the expressions on his face as we talked, and the "something is just not right" sick feeling in my gut.  

"What do you think, should I take her to the doctor?"  I asked him.

"Oh, I don't know.  The rash doesn't seem to bother her at all.  Maybe we should just just keep an eye on it and bring her in if it doesn't go away or if she develops anything else?"

"I don't know either.  She's not running a fever.  She had a cold recently, but that's gone now.  But this is just really strange.  It's all over her body, Luke.  What if she has some sort of...I don't know...blood disorder or something?"

"Yeah (sarcastically, but fun and sweet trying to lighten the mood), maybe she has a deadly Blood Disorder!"

Ha Ha Ha.  We both tried to laugh it off, but that nagging feeling in my gut remained. I called the doctor and made an appointment for her that afternoon.

Walking into the doctor's office, I felt silly.  So silly, in fact, that I almost left.  Surely this would be a waste of our time and money and I was just being a neurotic mommy.  The nurse saw us into our room, where Sammy and I sat quietly waiting for our turn.  My little giggling girl loved pat-a-cake, peek-a-boo,  and my out of tune rendition of "Skinny Marinky Dinky Dink" so she was a cinch to keep entertained.

The doctor came in with his usual warmth and easy manner.  He's been our family doctor since we were married - long before babies, so I know him well.  It's always so reassuring to see him walk in the room.

"So little Samantha isn't feeling well today?"  He asked.

"Well, she seems to feel fine.  It's this rash - it's all over her body."

"Let's take a look."

As he inspected her skin in his gentle and cautious manner, I could feel his demeanor changing.  His brow furrowed.  His smile dissolved.  

"I'm going to be right back" He said, and he disappeared out he door.

I held my baby with her mysterious rash and prayed and waited.

The doctor came back in with a piece of paper in his hand.  I tremble as I sit here today and recall his next words.

"I'd like for you to go see this doctor.  I just got off the phone with him, and he's expecting you." He said, as he handed me a piece of paper with a name written on it.

"Okay, well I'll go home and make an appointment as soon as I can."

"No, Daiquiri.  I don't think I was clear.  You need to go right now.  I want you to drive carefully, but go quickly.  Don't even stop for something to eat.  Don't stop to make a call.  Just go, and go now."

"What?  What is this?  What do you mean 'don't stop for something to eat'?  What the hell is going on?"

He avoided my questions and responded with words that, to this day, make me nauseous.

"Do you know where the Misty Center is?"

"What do you mean the Misty Center?  Do you mean the MSTI Center?  The Mountain States Tumor Institute?  The CANCER place?  WHY WOULD I BRING MY BABY THERE?"

"Please Daiquiri.  You have to be calm and strong right now.  Be strong, and hold it together, at least until you get her to MSTI.  You can do this, I know you can."

It was all I could to to keep from cussing him out.  He was being patient and firm and kind...but in my mind he was being downright awful and cruel to suggest what I thought he was suggesting.  I hated his guts in that moment, and I nearly slapped him across the face.  

I gathered up my precious baby, buckled her in her seat, and drove as fast as I could to the downtown cancer center.  It was during that drive that the lyrics of a song came to me, which became my only prayer and source of peace for the next several months: "Hold Me Jesus, 'cause I'm shaking like a leaf.  You have been King of my glory, won't you be my Prince of Peace."

As if in a dream, I found a front row spot in a parking lot that we would become all too well acquainted with over the course of the next few months.  Samantha was sleeping, so I carefully detached the baby carrier from it's base, and locked it into the stroller.  I looked at her for a moment as she slept peacefully, with those little pouty lips almost breaking my mommy heart. I covered the stroller with a quilt to keep the sun out of her face, and headed into the building.

The doors opened with a "whoosh" as I approached.  It was so easy.  So easy to buckle her into her stroller and walk into this cheerful looking building with quilts hanging on the walls and a fountain in the lobby.  The signs clearly marked the way to the office I needed...but I wanted to get lost.  I wanted to wander the hallways, get lost, and have an excuse to simply leave.  But it was easy.  My path was clear.  I didn't want it, but it was clear.

I made my way down the hushed hallway, and into the MSTI office.  I looked around the waiting room, and saw horror.  I saw sweet faces and loving parents with worried and tired brows...I saw bald heads, and cheeks puffed with steroids.  I saw toys in the corner.  I saw a dishwasher that was used to disinfect the toys daily.  I saw...our future?  The beginning of an end?  

I can't do this.

I stood there, paralyzed.  I couldn't move or speak.  What do I say?  "Hi, I'm here with my precious baby because, oh, I don't know, she might be dying or something.  Could you check her for me?"  ??

A nurse with a kind face approached me and put her arm around me.  I'm sure she'd seen a look like the one I had before.  She held me in a way that was comforting and functional at the same time.  She wanted to simply hug me...but she was propping me up too, like she thought I might fall over at any time.  She might have been right.

"What am I doing here?  What do I do?"  I asked.

She nodded reassuringly, still holding me. "You're in the right place.  Is this Samantha?"

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Let's go this way and we'll get her checked in."

"I think this is a mistake.  She just has a rash.  I can't do this.  This can't be happening.  I can't be in this place with my baby girl."

I don't remember the rest.  She guided us through the check-in process, and showed us to the room we were to wait in.  The doctor came in shortly, inspected her in his gruff and quick way (I wanted to slap him too - I wanted to slap everyone who came near my Sammy that day), and he ordered blood work.

We were ushered to the next room.  The walls were covered with cheerful wallpaper.  There was a bin of toys in the corner.  But none of it mattered as I held my screaming baby as they drew her blood.

After the blood draw, they placed a cotton ball over the puncture in her little arm, and sent the blood off for analysis.  He removed the cotton to place a band-aid...but there was so much blood.  How can all of this blood be coming out of my baby?!  And why won't it stop?!  The guy looked at me over his glasses as he held her arm, waiting for the bleeding to stop.  He might have said something, but I don't remember.  I only remember his eyes.  Those eyes spoke volumes that I didn't want to hear.

Something was wrong.  Something was terribly wrong...

UPDATE: Click here for Part 2 

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