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The baby was near death. Next to her in the crib was the book of life
Against All Odds
by Cheryl Deep
Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania
I stared at our seven-month-old baby girl, Chelsea, in the hospital crib. As I tucked up her blanket, my eyes rested on the old Dillon family Bible I kept in the crib with her. It had belonged to my grandmother, who died when I was 13. I cherished that Bible as I had cherished my grandmother. She always soothed my childhood hurts and fears; to this day I still missed her. The Bible had rested in her hands during her funeral service. My mother removed it just before the coffin lid was lowered, and later gave it to me.
But even Grandmother probably could not have soothed the hurt and fear my husband, Lance, and I now faced. Earlier that day the specialists at University Medical Center in Tucson had finally diagnosed the baffling condition that was slowly but surely draining the life from our first child.
"Chelsea has an extremely rare birth defect called severe combined immunodeficiency syndrome," our doctor informed us. "SCIDS interferes with the normal functioning of her immune system. She has virtually no natural defenses against infection. Her bone marrow doesn't produce the necessary cells."
I stood statue-still and stared at him. I remembered the movie Boy in the Plastic Bubble about a child with the same condition. All along we'd hoped it was some obscure but defeatable bug causing the fever, diarrhea and weight loss that ravaged Chelsea. I had prayed that somewhere in the mighty arsenal of modern medicine was the right drug, the magic bullet that would cure her. The immunologist carefully explained that the only option was a bone marrow transplanta risky procedure that at best had about a 50 percent chance of Success.
The only option.
We needed to transfer her to a hospital that did this sort of operation as soon as possible, he had said. There were only a few in the entire country.
Now as I stood over Chelsea's crib I smoothed the blanket and pushed the old Bible off to the side. Its leather cover was worn soft with use. As my child slept I closed my eyes and hoped for a miracle.
The next day we decided on Memorial Sloan-Kettering in Manhattan for the procedure because of their slightly-higher-than-average success rate. But now came the enormous problem of transporting Chelsea from Tucson to New York without exposing her to many people. Chelsea couldn't afford to catch even a cold. Any worsening in her condition would delay surgery. A simple flu bug could kill her.
Driving there was out of the question. She couldn't be off her IV fluids for that long. Commercial airliners posed too much hazard of contracting contagious disease, and big airports were even worse. We needed a private plane, but Chelsea's condition was not considered acutely critical, a criterion that had to be met before our insurance company would agree to cover the enormous cost of a jet. The catch-22 was that if Chelsea did become that critical, she would probably be too sick to have the surgery.
Lance and I were at wit's end. We didn't sleep, we barely ate. There had to be something we could do. We made countless phone calls. Finally we heard about a group called Corporate Angels, which provides free flights for sick children aboard private planes. The flights conduct normal business travel and patients hitch along. Corporate Angels found us a flight leaving that Friday out of Denver bound nonstop for New York. A miracle was in our grasp.
"Dear God," I prayed, "now please help us get to Denver. I know You have Your ways. We'll just keep on trying."
Denver was too far to drive. We got the number of a private medivac company. Maybe we could pay for the flight ourselves. But when I talked to Judy Barrie, a paramedic whose husband, Jim, piloted the medivac plane, she gave me the bad news: "The flight will cost six thousand dollars, minimum," she said. We didn't have $6,000. Our finances had been stretched to the limit.
I thanked Judy and said good-bye. "Wait," she said suddenly as I was about to hang up, "I really want to help you. I'm not promising anything, but I'll talk to Jim. Maybe he can figure this out."
When I hung up I had the strangest feeling that these people would be able to do something about what was increasingly a hopeless situation. An hour later Jim Barrie called back. "Listen, I've got a friend deadheading from Phoenix to Denver in the morning," Jim told me. (Deadheading meant he was flying back an empty plane.) "If you can get to the field by six-thirty, you can hitch along."
Perfect. Chelsea could handle the drive to Phoenix. But I was almost afraid to ask the next question. "Jim, what will it cost?"
"Cost? Heck, not a thing. This guy's a friend, and he's got to get his plane up there anyway."
I was faint with relief. These total strangers had taken a huge step in saving the life of my child. I didn't know what to say. The word thanks didn't seem big enough.
"You could do us one little favor, though," Jim added. "Judy and I would like to meet Chelsea."
Chelsea was awake and even a bit playful when Jim and Judy arrived at the hospital. While Jim talked to Lance about finding our way around the Phoenix airport, Judy and I chatted. Her eyes kept flitting over to the crib. Then I noticed she was staring at Grandma's Bible. One time when Judy was leaning over Chelsea, her fingers brushed it. Finally, as they were about to go, Judy asked, "Where are you from?" I told her Pittsburgh.
"I'm from Pittsburgh too," she said slowly. "Well, Carnegie actually."
"My mother is from Carnegie," I said. I felt a shiver go through me. "Virginia Everett. Dillon was her maiden name."
"Virginia Dillon?" Judy said, eyes wide. "My father was Howard Dillon."
"Uncle Howard?" I was stunned.
Judy nodded. It was as if a current of electricity had jumped between us. Now I could see why her face had seemed faintly familiar. Judy Barrie was my cousin Judy Dillon. "I haven't seen you since . . ." I started to say. Judy's eyes jumped again to the Bible.
"Since Grandma's funeral twenty years ago," she finished the sentence. "That's the Bible she was holding."
We fell into each other's arms. I knew then that all would be well with Chelsea. The odds against this crossing of paths were simply too great. This was meant to be.
Chelsea got her bone marrow transplant and four months later she left the hospital with a healthy immune system. She is, as they say, a medical miracle.
And then there was that other miracle. I like to think of it as my grandmother's miracle. In a sense, even 20 years after her funeral, she was reaching out to comfort me and to assure me that with God all things are possible.
The above article originally appeared in the April 1993 issue of Guideposts.
Submited by Richard
Against All Odds
by Cheryl Deep
Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania
I stared at our seven-month-old baby girl, Chelsea, in the hospital crib. As I tucked up her blanket, my eyes rested on the old Dillon family Bible I kept in the crib with her. It had belonged to my grandmother, who died when I was 13. I cherished that Bible as I had cherished my grandmother. She always soothed my childhood hurts and fears; to this day I still missed her. The Bible had rested in her hands during her funeral service. My mother removed it just before the coffin lid was lowered, and later gave it to me.
But even Grandmother probably could not have soothed the hurt and fear my husband, Lance, and I now faced. Earlier that day the specialists at University Medical Center in Tucson had finally diagnosed the baffling condition that was slowly but surely draining the life from our first child.
"Chelsea has an extremely rare birth defect called severe combined immunodeficiency syndrome," our doctor informed us. "SCIDS interferes with the normal functioning of her immune system. She has virtually no natural defenses against infection. Her bone marrow doesn't produce the necessary cells."
I stood statue-still and stared at him. I remembered the movie Boy in the Plastic Bubble about a child with the same condition. All along we'd hoped it was some obscure but defeatable bug causing the fever, diarrhea and weight loss that ravaged Chelsea. I had prayed that somewhere in the mighty arsenal of modern medicine was the right drug, the magic bullet that would cure her. The immunologist carefully explained that the only option was a bone marrow transplanta risky procedure that at best had about a 50 percent chance of Success.
The only option.
We needed to transfer her to a hospital that did this sort of operation as soon as possible, he had said. There were only a few in the entire country.
Now as I stood over Chelsea's crib I smoothed the blanket and pushed the old Bible off to the side. Its leather cover was worn soft with use. As my child slept I closed my eyes and hoped for a miracle.
The next day we decided on Memorial Sloan-Kettering in Manhattan for the procedure because of their slightly-higher-than-average success rate. But now came the enormous problem of transporting Chelsea from Tucson to New York without exposing her to many people. Chelsea couldn't afford to catch even a cold. Any worsening in her condition would delay surgery. A simple flu bug could kill her.
Driving there was out of the question. She couldn't be off her IV fluids for that long. Commercial airliners posed too much hazard of contracting contagious disease, and big airports were even worse. We needed a private plane, but Chelsea's condition was not considered acutely critical, a criterion that had to be met before our insurance company would agree to cover the enormous cost of a jet. The catch-22 was that if Chelsea did become that critical, she would probably be too sick to have the surgery.
Lance and I were at wit's end. We didn't sleep, we barely ate. There had to be something we could do. We made countless phone calls. Finally we heard about a group called Corporate Angels, which provides free flights for sick children aboard private planes. The flights conduct normal business travel and patients hitch along. Corporate Angels found us a flight leaving that Friday out of Denver bound nonstop for New York. A miracle was in our grasp.
"Dear God," I prayed, "now please help us get to Denver. I know You have Your ways. We'll just keep on trying."
Denver was too far to drive. We got the number of a private medivac company. Maybe we could pay for the flight ourselves. But when I talked to Judy Barrie, a paramedic whose husband, Jim, piloted the medivac plane, she gave me the bad news: "The flight will cost six thousand dollars, minimum," she said. We didn't have $6,000. Our finances had been stretched to the limit.
I thanked Judy and said good-bye. "Wait," she said suddenly as I was about to hang up, "I really want to help you. I'm not promising anything, but I'll talk to Jim. Maybe he can figure this out."
When I hung up I had the strangest feeling that these people would be able to do something about what was increasingly a hopeless situation. An hour later Jim Barrie called back. "Listen, I've got a friend deadheading from Phoenix to Denver in the morning," Jim told me. (Deadheading meant he was flying back an empty plane.) "If you can get to the field by six-thirty, you can hitch along."
Perfect. Chelsea could handle the drive to Phoenix. But I was almost afraid to ask the next question. "Jim, what will it cost?"
"Cost? Heck, not a thing. This guy's a friend, and he's got to get his plane up there anyway."
I was faint with relief. These total strangers had taken a huge step in saving the life of my child. I didn't know what to say. The word thanks didn't seem big enough.
"You could do us one little favor, though," Jim added. "Judy and I would like to meet Chelsea."
Chelsea was awake and even a bit playful when Jim and Judy arrived at the hospital. While Jim talked to Lance about finding our way around the Phoenix airport, Judy and I chatted. Her eyes kept flitting over to the crib. Then I noticed she was staring at Grandma's Bible. One time when Judy was leaning over Chelsea, her fingers brushed it. Finally, as they were about to go, Judy asked, "Where are you from?" I told her Pittsburgh.
"I'm from Pittsburgh too," she said slowly. "Well, Carnegie actually."
"My mother is from Carnegie," I said. I felt a shiver go through me. "Virginia Everett. Dillon was her maiden name."
"Virginia Dillon?" Judy said, eyes wide. "My father was Howard Dillon."
"Uncle Howard?" I was stunned.
Judy nodded. It was as if a current of electricity had jumped between us. Now I could see why her face had seemed faintly familiar. Judy Barrie was my cousin Judy Dillon. "I haven't seen you since . . ." I started to say. Judy's eyes jumped again to the Bible.
"Since Grandma's funeral twenty years ago," she finished the sentence. "That's the Bible she was holding."
We fell into each other's arms. I knew then that all would be well with Chelsea. The odds against this crossing of paths were simply too great. This was meant to be.
Chelsea got her bone marrow transplant and four months later she left the hospital with a healthy immune system. She is, as they say, a medical miracle.
And then there was that other miracle. I like to think of it as my grandmother's miracle. In a sense, even 20 years after her funeral, she was reaching out to comfort me and to assure me that with God all things are possible.
The above article originally appeared in the April 1993 issue of Guideposts.
Submited by Richard
