Almond Joy

It’s amazing how we can plot out a day to the last detail only to have our plans utterly wrecked by the smallest incident. A flat tire, a phone call, a detour. Oh, your two-year-old aspirating an almond.

Tuesday, last week, was supposed to be totally fabulous. Some of my life goals are more selfless and substantial than others, and let’s just say eight days ago was supposed to be one BIG SHAMELESS CHECK off my list. One of my girlfriends had tickets for us to be part of the audience for an upcoming episode of my favorite reality show in the whole wide world. I can’t name the show due to some confidentiality issues, so I’ll just say that roses are red and it’s all about being there for the right reasons.

I woke up at 5:45 a.m. to wash, dry and curl my hair, then coat on camera-ready make-up complete with false lashes. I packed up the car: new dress, high heels, best bra, (more) make-up, and Emerson’s gear for a day at my mom’s house immediately following our 9:15 a.m. appointment with a new pediatrician. We were needed in L.A. by 1, so I’d have to keep strictly according to schedule. For once, the morning unfolded seamlessly. I silently applauded my mom game when we arrived to the doctor on time.

Promptly, a nurse ushered us into one of the medical rooms where we’d wait to meet Dr. P (which is what I will call her here) for Emerson’s two-year well check. For 15 minutes we waited, which we all know is 15 bajillion hours in fragile toddler time. Emerson began to grow antsy, and hungry, and loud, so when she found my huge bag of raw almonds in the stroller basket, I didn’t object. I don’t make a massive habit of giving her nuts, but she has all her teeth, she loves almonds, and she had proved to me more than once that she could more than handle them.

Finally, enter Dr. P, who immediately won me over with her huge smile, voluptuous golden hair, chic green blouse for St. Patty’s, overall beauty and general magnetism. More than one mom had recommended her to me as the “Disney princess” of local pediatricians, and they were not wrong! I immediately fell under her magical spell, and I loved that she had two young kids of her own. The deal was sealed when she looked for animals in Emerson’s ears.

Our previous pediatrician made a bit of a bad vaccination snafu and somehow neglected to do Emerson’s MMR shot a while back—of all vaccines to forget this year!!!!—so now was the time for her measles shot. Dr. P wrapped up our visit and let us know that the nurse would return in a moment to dole out the MMR.

Next came the five or so minutes that I’ve replayed in my mind one million times. The nurse entered our room. Emerson smiled at me, enough to show that there were, indeed, still some chewed-up almond remnants in her cute little mouth. Which I so should have done something about. But I didn’t. I didn’t even think twice about it until the nurse had her up on the table. Then something inside me, maybe mom intuition, maybe Jesus, maybe both, whispered that almond particles and shots might not be the best of friends. But I assumed that the nurse had noticed the almonds, too, and she could still give her the shot, no big deal, perhaps Emerson would fuss a little bit but it would all be over in a minute and I could be off to L.A.

So, so wrong I was. I’ll never ignore that little voice inside ever again. The nurse pushed back Emerson’s little torso until she was nearly flat on the bed, and then injected her chunky little thigh with the two-inch needle.

Silence.

Then crying.

Then choking.

Then my sweet baby panicking, coughing, struggling to breathe, her big eyes looking into mine saying, “What did you just let happen to me?! You’re my mom and you’re standing right here! So why can’t I breathe?”

All I could do in that moment was thank God we were in a doctor’s office and pray that Emerson would find her breath again. She did; raspy and shaky, but she did. The calm nurse patted her small back firmly and rhythmically as we watched almond chunks spew onto the floor.

At last, every remnant was gone, and the crying stopped.

The weird, sketchy breathing did not.

“She’s breathing, which is the most important thing,” said the nurse. “But I want Dr. P to listen to her before you go. We also need to check her oxygen levels.”

Oxygen levels? Seriously? Surely she’d just, you know, cough a few more times, maybe get a little more almond dust out of there, and her breathing would even on out. Right? Right?

When the nurse returned with Dr. P, the open concern in both of their faces made my heart lapse. They checked her oxygen; sure enough, it had dropped seven points since the incident. Dr. P listened to her lungs, and I watched her soft beauty queen face firm into one of hard concentration. I saw a few different women cross her countenance in a matter of seconds: girl who worked her butt off in medical school, female greatly respected for her pediatric achievements, but most importantly, a mother herself.

“Her breathing was perfect in her well check 10 minutes ago, and now she’s wheezing on the right side,” she said. “This indicates to me that there very well may be something trapped in her lung. I want you to go to CHOC for X-rays.”

CHOC, the Children’s Hospital of Orange County. Dear Lord, anywhere but CHOC, the scariest, most heartbreaking place on the planet. Also, I’m not proud of what I said next, but Emerson seemed fine to me. Was CHOC really a total must?

“I’m actually supposed to go to L.A. for the taping of a TV show, like right now. Are you sure we need to go to CHOC? Are you suggesting it as a super-careful precaution, or telling me I need to race her to the hospital right now?”

She looked at me squarely and I knew she wasn’t messing around. “I’m telling you what I would do if this was my daughter, which is the most honest thing I can ever do for my patients. I’ll call them right now. I think you should head over immediately.”

My pregnant stomach tightened into dizzying knots. “Okay, then. Okay.”

*****

Since my mom was supposed to watch Emerson that entire day anyway—and since CHOC is genuinely my least favorite standing destination in the whole free world and I didn’t want to face it alone—I picked her up on the way. Sometimes, you just need your mom. In fact, I have found myself needing my mom more since becoming a mother myself than in any of my adult years prior. Maybe by far. It’s ironic. It’s surprising. It’s something only moms understand.

We arrived at the CHOC ER, and straight away, the questions, the tests, the IVs, the helpers, the kind words, the scary words, the more questions, the waiting, the praying, the crying, the texts, the freaking out, the bad food and the not caring about the bad food—it all became the day’s reality.

Emerson, my angel, was a champion, and in navigating the day as her mom, I couldn’t help but think of the movie Life is Beautiful, one of my favorites, when a Jewish father uses beauty and imagination to protect his young son from the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp. He turns all things dreadful into a game or adventure, and you can’t help but bawl at the end. So I thought of him, and I decided that Emerson’s patient admission band could actually be a “pretty bracelet!” Her tiny medical gown could in turn be a “princess dress!” And her bed on wheels could easily be a special “white car” in which we could go “really fast!” Poor thing didn’t get to eat a single bite or sleep a single wink for the rest of the day. She also did not cry once and she rarely stopped smiling. I can’t say the same for myself, but I’m proud of my girl.

In short, the X-ray of her chest didn’t reveal anything; I guess food pieces often don’t show. But after five different medical professionals listened to her uneven breathing, the unanimous verdict arrived: Something was blocking her airway and must be removed. The ENT surgeon on staff would perform a procedure called a Direct Laryngoscopy with Bronchoscopy. Basically, they would put Emerson under anesthesia and go down her throat with a small camera to examine her voice box and lungs. Once identified, all in the same operation, they would proceed to retrieve the particle.

The worst parts of these things are the risks that they must disclose. In this case, it was a blur of apnea-related brain injury, losing the airway and needing to puncture a new one through her throat, and, oh, an allergic reaction to anesthesia meaning these were the last moments with my daughter as I knew her. They assured me it was a common procedure, but no mom hears “common” when it’s thrown in with brain damage and throat breathing.

So all day, we waited, since Emerson had to fast for eight hours before the surgery and she’d last eaten (her last almond ever, mark my words) at 10. Such an eternal limbo. Yet, as He always does, God revealed Himself to me in the smallest yet most significant of ways on that Tuesday as I waited for my baby to be wheeled away.

I was really opening up to one nurse about my almond guilt as well as my anxiety over the operation. Why didn’t I clear her mouth before the shot?! Why did I let them lay her down?! Why did I give her almonds in the first place?! And now my baby has to undergo anesthesia?! “Stephanie,” she said. “It could have been so much worse. I’m going to be honest: You could not have your little girl sitting here now. That’s the reality. You could have lost her. And now, she’s going to be just fine.”

And later, as Doug, my mom and I sat in the waiting room during the procedure while a white screen above us flashed Emerson’s status as “IN PROGRESS” forever and ever, my friend Jenn called me and prayed with me over the phone. She’s a total prayer warrior and she prayed a lot of beautiful things, but one thing really stood out to me. She said, “Lord, may Steph remember that Emerson is Your child first. Then Steph’s. She’s Your child first and we trust you with her little lungs right now.”

After infinity, “IN PROGRESS” ticked to “RECOVERY” and I could finally breathe again. The ENT surgeon came out to see us and immediately pulled out the culprit from a plastic canister. Check out that GNARLY almond chunk, fished out from the top entrance to my daughter’s right lung. Of course, I gasped, and immediately asked what would have happened if we hadn’t come in. At best, most likely pneumonia due to infection; at worst, collapsing and death.

Soon I was holding my anesthesia-drunk little daughter. I’m not technically supposed to be lifting her at this point in my pregnancy, but it wasn’t the time to care and I figured God would give me a break. Right then, Emerson was the baby that needed me. I hadn’t rocked her to sleep since she was four months old, since we sleep-trained her pretty early, and that was the day’s final God moment. I cradled my firstborn daughter in the very arms I’ve been loathing lately because they’re so fat, and I rocked her to sleep and told her over and over and over again how much I loved her. While I did, I thought to myself, I really don’t care if my arms weigh a zillion pounds. I have arms, and they’re holding my daughter, and a brilliant doctor’s arms just restored her breathing. Thank you, Jesus, for my baby girl’s life and for all of our arms. And may I raise up daughters who view their arms as powerful tools to be used mightily by You and not as mere accessories to tone and to scorn.

Oh, and FYI, this was after Emerson had already assured me her brain was just fine when she whispered in a raspy little voice, squinting: “ANNA!!! ELSA!!!” Her two best friends. Her first words out of surgery. Maybe we watch too much Disney.

Aside from a hoarse voice and soft-foods diet for the better part of a week, Emerson’s recovery was breezy and bright. Some things we’ll never know until we get to heaven, like why I wasn’t meant to attend the TV taping or why this wretched scare had to happen. I mean, I guess on the bright side I got some glamour shots in the hospital thanks to my very serious hair and make-up situation.

Also, Dr. P and I are going to do a write-up together to warn medical professionals and mothers in the future about mixing snacks and shots, so maybe my experience will help prevent some other nutty mishaps in the future.

But more than anything, God used a horrific day to wrap me in love, joy and gratitude—for my daughter, for my miraculously growing body, for modern medicine, for an amazing mom of my own, for so many friends who immediately surrounded us with support and prayers, and for a new pediatrician whose medical and mom intuition probably saved Emerson’s life.

And I’m not going to beat myself up about it anymore, but that still small Jesus-Mommy voice inside all of us: It talks. Listen. It might be the most powerful parenting resource we have.