The Knitter and I

Is there anything worse than hospital coffee? I guess I shouldn’t complain, it’s hot and strong and the steam allows me to focus on something other than this unbearable pit in my stomach.

Three days ago, my 11 year old daughter Lilly’s heart stopped beating. She is being kept alive on life support while they await a heart transplant. It wasn’t a surprise. We had known since her birth that this day was inevitable but nothing truly prepares you for it. I’ve learned so much about CHD that I could probably write a book, but here I sit, praying that this transplant is a success.

While we were at the hospital this morning, we got the news that there might be a match for Lilly. They were getting the release for the organ and the initial tests showed that the heart was good and Lilly was strong enough for the transplant.

Across from me an older woman is knitting a blanket and singing  a gospel hymn, while others around her are sobbing. She seems to have a sense of calm about her. I wonder if that is her religion that helps her when everyone else seems to be falling apart?

Hours tick by, people come and go, and eventually it is just the knitter and I sitting in the waiting room. I am heading out for more coffee, so I decide to bring her a cup back. As I approach her I see that the blanket is almost complete, It is a stunning piece of craftsmanship . The blanket is a soft powder blue with an intricate herringbone design.

 “Your blanket is beautiful,” I say.

“Thank you sweet pea, it’s for my son”.

“I’m sure he’ll love it”.

 She smiles and takes the coffee from me.

Adelaide  asks who I am visiting and I break into sobs telling her about Lilly. She looks at me with gentle eyes and tells me that the Lord has got this. She whispers a prayer while holding my hand and asks God to protect Lilly and give her a long and beautiful life. I am overwhelmed by her softness and the utter faith that she has in her God.

Lilly’s Doctor comes up to tell me that they are prepping her for the transplant, so I should go back and see her. He says the surgery will take several hours. Adelaide tells me to give Lilly a kiss for her and to tell her that everything is going to be ok. I suddenly feel a sense of calm walking back to her room.

The room is all a buzz with lights and machines and the pre- op Nurses are prepping Lilly. Lilly is calm and quiet and I can feel her apprehension as I walk into the room. There is nothing that I want to do more than trade places with her and take all this pain away. I wish I could snatch her up and run far away with her. But I hold her hand and put on a brave face and tell her that everything is going to be okay. She smiles back and says see you in a little bit.

When your child is sick or hurt there is no greater pain in the world. I feel like I am dying. My husband has called my Doctor and requested some Valium because I haven’t slept in days, but who can sleep? Do I even want to sleep?  My Husband feels helpless 7,000 miles away in Japan on business, he is trying desperately to catch the next flight home to Tennessee. I wish he was here; I need him here. This pain is too intense.

I fall back into the chair next to Adelaide in the waiting room. She grabs my hand and says “honey, you are strong and you will be fine.” I smile at her but she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what I have gone through for the past 11 years. How can she possibly know what it is like to look at your child in that hospital bed and wonder if they are ever going to get out again? It's gut-wrenching. I’ve cried a million tears today; my red eyes and puffy face tell the story. Adelaide has rubbed my back, grabbed me tissues, and refilled my coffee a half a dozen times. Turns  out she works at the elementary school in the cafeteria. All five of her children went through the same school system and it was her way of getting to be near them every day. Her kids are all grown now, but she still works there part time because she loves the kids. She seems like a really sweet lady.

One of the nurses comes back out to say that the donor’s heart was released and they have completed the transplant. They are moving Lilly to ICU and I should be able to see her soon. It was a success! I’m so happy, I am crying again . I look around for Adelaide, but she is gone.

I asked the receptionist where she went and she points down the hall. All along the corridors, Doctors and nurses are lined up. I see Adelaide walking beside a bed as they are rolling it down the long hall. Everyone is clapping. I smile and start clapping like a fool. Her son must be coming home today. As the bed gets closer, I see the beautiful blanket that she knitted is across the middle of the bed, and then I see it. The sheet is completely covering his body.

Anton Brooks was a good man, a good son, and faithful leader of his church. He was killed in a drive by shooting on March 26^th, 1986. When he became an organ donor at 16 years old he had no idea that one day he would be saving Lilly’s life, but his mother Adelaide knew the son that she raised, and nurtured all those years, was destined for great things.

As I sat in the waiting room with Adelaide for all those hours, telling her about Lilly, I never once asked her about who she was there to visit. She gave me her time, her words of encouragement, her faith, and the most precious gift of all, life for Lilly.