wear?” I yelled, in complete shock. There was silence outside the bathroom door, and I knew she was gone. Probably because she was pissed she couldn’t get in here. It was just like her to drop a bomb like that and disappear. I threw my head back and yelled, “Mom!”
I gave it a minute and then relaxed back into the tub. Work had been horrible today. One of the long time patients I’d worked with had taken a turn for the worst, and I’d comforted his family as they made preparations to take him off of life support.
Unfortunately, days like today happened too often in the profession I’d chosen. But that was what I was there for - to help the families adjust to their child’s diagnosis and treatment schedule or to help them get through it when things went horribly wrong.
I closed my eyes and thought back to the first day Brooklyn got sick. She’d been tired and nauseated the night before, and I’d skipped dinner with her and we’d read until she fell asleep. I’d been at work the next morning when my dad called and told me to meet them downstairs in the emergency room because Brooklyn was sick.
I’d been terrified as I waited on them to bring her in, and when I saw her, my heart almost stopped. She was yellow. Not just pale and sickly, but yellow. Even her eyeballs were yellow where they were white just yesterday. I’d listened to the doctors, taking notes as I sat beside my little girl’s bed and cried. It really hit home when one of my own employees had come in to talk to me about donor lists, options for end of life care, and an assortment of other things that I knew already.
I knew them because I talked to other people about their children, not because I’d need that information for my child.
I’d heard so many parents say, “This can’t happen to my baby.” And then it happened to mine.
The doctors had no idea why her liver was failing and ran every test known to man. They’d started her on multiple treatments, and her name was added to the national donor recipient list.
Within 24 hours, she’d gone from a happy, go-lucky little girl with a twinkle in her eyes to a pale child in a hospital bed who could very well die. I knew in my heart that praying for a donor for her might mean I was praying for someone else’s death, but I couldn’t stop. She was my baby and had been since she was three-days old.
Every member of my family had been tested to see if they were a match and might be able to donate a portion of their liver. None of them could. Brooklyn was at the mercy of fate or the kindness of a stranger, and neither of those seemed hopeful because of her blood type.
It had been 23 days, and Brooklyn was not responding to any of the treatments. The doctor sat down with tears in his eyes and said we’d lose her within 24 hours if we didn’t find a donor. I’d cried so hard that day, begging God to find someone that could help my little girl.
And suddenly, the doctors and nurses rushed into the room, ready to take my baby back for surgery. A young woman had died, and she was a perfect match. I had seconds to kiss Brooklyn before they whisked her away to prep for the procedure. Nine hours later, the same doctor who’d cried just this morning told me that the prognosis looked good.
Ten days after that, Brooklyn was home in her own bed. She was still weak and recovering but on the road to a happy and normal life.
I’d always wondered what angel had given my baby her liver but would probably never know. It broke my heart to think of the grieving family of the donor, but the selfish part of me was glad that Brooklyn was okay.
“Mama? Are you soaking?”
“I am, baby. Use the key.”
I heard the dresser drawer open and shut, and within just a few seconds, Brooklyn’s face was smiling down at me. “You’re losing your bubbles, and you’re pruny.”
“I’ve been in here a while. Go put the key up before Boo figures out how you got in here.”
Brooklyn skipped out of the room, her blonde hair bouncing back and forth behind her, and skipped back in after she’d put the key back in its spot. She shut