Column: The path of good wishes

We barely limped across the border into 2021 before the first scary episode of the year kicked in. Over the course of a week I began to notice a growing asymmetry in my daughter's face. It started so subtly I was able to convince myself it wasn't happening. She kept mentioning her neck hurt too, and what initially felt like nothing eventually grew to a very large, discernible lump in her neck, on the same side of her face that appeared to be changing in appearance. Knowing a trip to the emergency room at midnight on a weekend is not an easy ordeal on a child, I tried to consult her pediatrician and my own trusted source: my niece, an ER nurse. I felt comfortable waiting until I could speak to her pediatrician the following day to check her advice, and in the meantime give her another night of 'normal.' My night was anything but normal. I silently worried on the inside while appearing completely normal on the outside for her sake. I reminded myself of every hallmark of health she had: No fever, no complaints, still active, still eating, still able to see. I tried not to look up her symptoms. I failed. A nurse called me first thing in the morning. We went through a checklist of issues and she said she would confer with the doctor and call me back, but told me it would likely be wise to go to an ER with a pediatric department. For us, that was a county away. By the time she called me back, I was on the highway and almost there. Hospitals are strange places to be during a pandemic. Though both my husband and I were there, only one of us was allowed to enter with our 11-year-old. We stayed probably 10 hours, during which he sat outside in the truck, waiting. We did the same thing last summer on another ER visit for our children. Both parents were there; that time, I stayed outside in the July heat all day. I sat alongside her tiny frame in an overside hospital gown and socks. The intravenous line put in her arm terrified her. Taking blood terrified her. She had X-rays and ultrasounds and a brain scan. I walked alongside her wheelchair as we walked endless white-tiled halls to the MRI machine. They strapped her beautiful little head into a cage and passed me her stuffed animals. She looked so small. She looked so scared. I was stationed on a stool at the opening of the MRI. She slid into the tight tunnel with a mirror tilted to let her see me. For an hour I sat there holding up stuffed animals so she could see their faces, and smiling if she could see mine. Everything in the room was so clinical: stainless steel surfaces, white spaces, bleached linens and gowns and masks and face shields. It was the opposite of what was happening in me: Fear splashed throughout my mind, pleading clawed at my thoughts, my tongue. The machine's pounding was hidden for her behind music piped through headphones; for me, the sounds hid my prayers under the wall of sound. The sliding platform before me turned into an altar where I poured out my fear, asking for safety for my child. I reasonably reminded God of my faith and my lack of faith, both. I would turn my head to cry, wipe away the tears, and turn back, calmly smiling for my girl. I knew what they were looking for, and they were heart-stopping possibilities: Cancer. Brain tumor. You'd like to think those don't happen to children. But they do. And you'd like to think they don't happen in the midst of a pandemic. But they do. Some test results were "a bit abnormal" and next thing you know, we're being sent downtown to a larger hospital. By the time we got there and settled in, it was dark and lightly snowing.This time they took pity on us and allowed both her parents to stay in her room overnight. I say take pity, but it could've been that glint in our eyes that told everyone that came near that neither one of us were leaving her. If only the protective instinct of parents could beat back sickness there'd be no need for hospitals at all. In less than 24 hours we saw probably a dozen doctors from a dizzying array of specialties. The ones that seemed most intrigued were infectious disease specialists. I listed every single possible clue I can think of, cataloguing any symptom, exposure or reaction, what she eats, what kind of animals we have, unusual illnesses in our family tree. I stayed awake while rubbing her feet, scratching her back, singing to her to sleep. And the next day we were sent home, with no answers but with all the scariest things ruled out. Days later we received what we thought was a diagnosis — until it was looked at again and discarded. In the end, her symptoms begin to abate and the entire episode was chalked up to what I call the "medical mystery." Many things indicated a virus of some kind — yet the virus itself stayed just enough out of sight to remain hidden. "Well, if Baby Girl is going to get a virus… an unknown mysterious one fits her. Probably picked it up from a Sasquatch," one of my best friends acknowledged. Baby Girl's reputation for Bigfoot hunting is pretty widespread, and my friend wasn't the only one who suggested a mystery virus would be right up her alley. My child was OK. We were one of the lucky ones. I found myself almost reluctant to tell anyone our good news because so many around us have not come through this past year unscathed. Death has struck so many of our loved ones' homes this year, rudely barging in much earlier than they ever expected. To mention a favorable outcome seemed in extremely poor taste. Until I realized my messages were filling up, people checking in, asking about my girl. So many were praying for her with us, thinking of her, wishing us well. It didn't matter what they'd lost; they would take no comfort in us losing as well. People whom I know are barely putting one foot in front of the other in their grief were genuinely concerned how our baby was doing. It's been really easy to lose sight of goodness and kindness in this harsh season. But our divisions don't seem so defined when we're talking about our mutual concern for someone's child. I worry about yours. I want the best for yours, and mine. I love mine and I know you love yours. The better yours do, and mine do, the better we do. That thought helps me. Maybe that is where we start to find our way back to each other. Contact Rini Jeffers @rinijeffersauthorworks, Facebook.com/RiniJeffers or rinijeffers@gmail.com, and follow her on Twitter @RiniJeffers.