Chapter Six: Strength in Sickness—Sudden Darkness and the Long Vigil
No parent prepares for a summer like this for their nineteen-month-old child.
August 9, 2024.
That day had begun as an ordinary morning.
The day before, Little Wheat had vomited, and we had taken him to his family doctor. At the time, the doctor did not consider his condition serious and provided appropriate treatment. Later that evening, he began having diarrhea.
The next morning, we were already planning to take him to the hospital.
His mother held him and had intended to give him something to eat.
Then he seemed very tired and wanted to sleep.
His mother lay beside him and also slept briefly.
When she woke, she realized that something was clearly wrong with Little Wheat.
His body had gone limp, his response was weak, and his face was pale.
At that moment, we knew we could not wait any longer.
What happened next moved very quickly.
Calling 911.
Emergency responders arriving.
The ambulance.
The hospital.
Prayer.
Waiting.
A familiar morning quickly became an emergency unlike anything our family had ever experienced.
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Into the PICU
Little Wheat was taken to Riley Children's Hospital for further treatment and admitted to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit—the PICU.
In our original records, we remember the doctors telling us that at one point his blood pressure had fallen to approximately:
44/22.
For us at the time, that number alone was frightening enough.
At the hospital, the doctors began looking for the cause of his sudden deterioration.
One possibility they considered was a viral infection, including Norovirus.
Here, the language of later recollection must be precise:
The doctors suspected or considered Norovirus, but in the materials we can currently confirm, we do not have sufficient basis to write that it was the final confirmed cause of his illness.
Therefore, this book will not say:
“Little Wheat became critically ill because of Norovirus.”
We can only say honestly:
During his treatment, a viral infection, including Norovirus, was among the possible causes considered by the medical team.
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In the days that followed, he underwent many examinations and treatments.
EEG monitoring.
Blood draws.
IV therapy.
Respiratory support.
Intubation.
Gastrointestinal-related treatment.
Infection-control and isolation measures.
Specific medical diagnoses, treatment decisions, and disease mechanisms belong to the professional medical record; as parents, we do not attempt here to make medical conclusions in place of the doctors.
What we can write down is what we saw with our own eyes.
A child who had been smiling, touching piano keys, and going to church with Daddy and Mommy was suddenly lying in a PICU bed.
Various pieces of equipment surrounded his body.
Medical staff moved in and out constantly.
We put on isolation gowns to enter the room.
We washed our hands again and again.
Again and again, we waited for the doctors to explain the latest situation.
Again and again, we asked:
“How is he now?”
“What else can be done?”
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Thirteen Days
From August 9 to August 21, those thirteen days later became one of the most unforgettable periods of our lives.
Time seemed to behave strangely in the PICU.
An hour could feel very long.
And then an entire day would suddenly be gone.
We practically moved our whole lives into the hospital.
Brothers and sisters from church came.
Pastors came.
Friends came.
Some brought food.
Some sat with us.
Some stood beside the hospital bed and prayed.
Some sang hymns.
Some said nothing and simply stayed beside us.
All of these things mattered deeply at the time.
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Many people held Little Wheat's hand.
Some whispered to him:
“Little Wheat, we are here.”
Some prayed for him:
“Lord Jesus, have mercy.”
Some sang “Jehovah Is Love.”
In a hospital room like that, many familiar words of faith suddenly carried a completely different weight.
Before, we had sung:
“God will take care of us.”
Now we were singing without knowing the outcome.
Before, we had spoken about:
“Entrusting.”
Now we were learning to entrust at the very moment when we least wanted to let go.
Before, I had preached about suffering from the pulpit.
Now suffering was no longer a sermon topic.
It was lying right in front of me.
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The Medical Staff
During those thirteen days, we also saw many medical professionals caring for Little Wheat with great diligence.
The nurses continually watched his condition.
The doctors evaluated him again and again.
Some, in the midst of their work, would say a few words of comfort to us.
The original manuscript recorded some of the nurses' impressions of this quiet child.
Some said he was very quiet.
Some, because they had grown fond of him, described him with very tender words.
Those words became part of his parents' memories.
But we do not want to turn other people's gentle praise into unverifiable spiritual judgments.
At the time, Little Wheat was a very sick child.
And the doctors, nurses, and others who cared for him did their best to help him within their responsibilities.
That alone is worth remembering with gratitude.
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The Book of Job at Midnight
Late one night, I sat beside the hospital bed.
It was very quiet around me, and I opened the Book of Job.
I read:
“The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD.” —Job 1:21, KJV
I had read this verse many times before.
That day, I could hardly continue reading it.
I held my son's hand.
My tears fell.
As his father, of course I wanted to ask God to heal him.
And I did pray that way.
I hoped for a turn in his condition that we could call a miracle.
I hoped Little Wheat would open his eyes.
I hoped that one day I could carry him home again.
I hoped he would sit at the piano again.
I hoped these days would eventually become only a frightening episode our family would remember in the future.
All of these desires were real.
Faith does not require parents to pretend that they do not want their child to be saved.
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Yet in prayer, I also became increasingly aware of another exceedingly difficult truth:
I could plead, but I could not command God to act according to my wishes.
This does not mean that we can explain why a child would suffer such an illness.
We cannot.
Nor will this book explain every medical event as “a particular step deliberately arranged by God.”
There is much within suffering that we do not know.
Faith has not given us a hidden manual explaining every chain of cause and effect.
What we can hold on to is this:
Even when we do not know why, Christ is still the Lord to whom we can cry out.
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Sue stayed beside our child almost constantly.
She sang to him.
She spoke softly to him.
She touched his hand.
Sometimes she held him.
We do not know how much he could hear when his consciousness was severely affected, nor do we know how much he could understand.
So we cannot say:
“He definitely heard us.”
But for a mother, that is not the most important question.
A mother does not sing because she has already proved that her child can understand.
She sings because:
This is her child.
Love continues to speak even when the outcome is uncertain.
Presence still has meaning when there are no answers.
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Before the Final Day
As the days passed, the doctors' conversations with us became heavier and heavier.
The distance between hope and reality also became increasingly difficult to bear.
We kept praying.
And we kept crying.
Sometimes we worshiped together.
Sometimes we were silent.
Sometimes one of us did not begin to cry until after stepping out of the room.
We did not make it through those thirteen days by holding on to a belief that “everything will develop in the direction we want.”
What sustained us was a more difficult faith:
Even if in the end we did not receive the outcome we wanted most,
Jesus was still Lord.
Even if we did not understand today,
we could still cry out to Him.
Even if death truly drew near,
death was not where the Christian's final hope rested.
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Wednesday, August 21, 2024.
The thirteen days reached their final day.
That day is not a date in this story that can be hurried past with dramatic language.
It was a day we truly lived through.
It was also the day that divided our family's life forever into “before” and “after.”
In the next chapter, I must write down what we least want to write, yet cannot leave unwritten:
how we said goodbye to our son.