From Bad to Worse: The Life-Flight to Primary Children’s Hospital

About an hour after we learned that Abigail was on her way to intensive-care, Lisa and I decided that I needed to go home and be with our other four children to hug them, show them pictures and videos of the baby, and brief them on the situation. I left the hospital with a wrench in my gut, thinking that I might possibly not see Abigail alive again, that I would get a call from Lisa, saying that she had just learned that she had died. What made the feeling more profound was the now seemingly prophetic question that Samantha had posed to me just the night before.  I was up in her room just before bedtime, going through our routine of visiting with each of the kids, when Samantha asked, "Dad, are you prepared to deal with the baby dying?"  It was such an odd question, and apparently so out of context, that I was startled--so startled that I could only give an honest answer.

"No, Sam, I am not prepared for that.  And I don't know how well I would do deal with that.  But I know if that's what happened that Heavenly Father would help us."

With Sam's "prophesy" ringing in my ears, it is understated to say that it was difficult to leave the hospital, but I felt an equal pull, tugging at me to go home and be with our other four children.

Minutes after I arrived home, "the call" from Lisa came. I had been in the house for just a few moments, when one of the children told me that Mom was on the phone.  I panicked for a moment.  Abigail’s condition had escalated to the negative so quickly that evening that I expected that phone call to be the communication that Abigail had died. Instead, the news wasn’t so final, but was almost equally grim: “The neonatologist just announced again that ‘things don’t look good,’ that the baby likely has congenital heart disease, and that she is being transported immediately via Life-Flight to Primary Children’s Medical Center.” She asked me to drive to Primary Children’s to be with the baby.

Before I left the house I sat down with our four children at home, showed them highlights from the day of video and snapshots, and then shared with them the gravity of the situation. My parents had fortunately just showed up at the house, and were there to share in our tears as we watched the video of Abigail, and as I explained to my children that Abigail is very sick, and that she may not live very long. I then reassured my kids of the peace that I had felt since I gave Abigail her first blessing. I told them that I didn’t quite know what that peace meant—that it did not guarantee that Abigail would live or that she would ever be healthy—but that I did know that that peace signified that Heavenly Father was with us, that he’s in charge, and that no matter what happens, that Abigail’s life—be it long or short—will serve to help bring our family come closer to our ultimate goal: eternal life as a family unit.

Before I left my children for the trip to Primary Children’s, we knelt in prayer as a family, and my father served as the voice in our petition to God. After the prayer, I hugged each of my kids with a sensitivity and a love for them that I don’t think I’ve felt so strongly before.

Hours of Uncertainty: Swine Flu Quarantine at Primary Children’s

I was accompanied to Primary Children’s by my good friend, Quinn Kofford. I can think of no other person with whom I would rather spend these hours of uncertainty. As many of you know, Quinn just lost his sweet 5-year old son, Cooper, in July to an automobile accident in his driveway. Quinn and his wife Jana Lynn’s response to the tragic death of their son has been other-worldly. While their open wounds are excruciatingly painful, they have leveraged their experience to change lives and to grow their family closer to God. I know of no other better way to describe their response to Cooper’s death than to call it transformative and life-changing for everyone who has even the remotest relationship with them.

As Quinn drove, I apologized for consuming what was likely to be his entire night and early morning, to which Quinn aptly replied, “Look, Heaven is real close right now. This is a pleasure.” He shared some tender feelings about Cooper, and I about Abigail. We talked about peace, death, life, trial, love, mourning, family, and even sprinkled in a little small talk. We laughed. We cried. We prayed.

Primary Children’s had been alerted that the father of their newest addition was recovering from the swine flu, and security was given strict instructions not to let me near her. Thus, Quinn and I had to stay in the lobby of the hospital the entire evening, and we were told to dawn masks.

Quinn was a lifesaver in so many ways that evening. While security tried to get my cell phone number so that the doctors could “call me” with updates, he made them bring the life-flight team downstairs to discuss Abigail in person. When we hadn’t heard from anyone for over three hours, Quinn made security fetch our team of doctors. When I sat in the lobby, a bit overwhelmed at what I was being told, Quinn asked clarifying questions so that I could properly inform my wife of what we had learned. When I wasn’t allowed to go upstairs, Quinn went in my place and gave a second priesthood blessing to Abigail.

That ability for Quinn to even give that blessing was a bit of a tender mercy. It was 3:30 a.m., and we had just met with three doctors—two cardiologists and a pediatrician—who had explained Abigail’s various heart defects. After Quinn asked a few clarifying questions, I asked the doctors, “I realize that in my state, you are not going to allow me to go upstairs, but I want nothing more than to give my baby a blessing. Because I can’t do that, I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow my close friend here to give my baby a blessing.”

The pediatrician replied with the company line that Quinn probably wouldn’t be allowed into the NICU because hospital policy states that all visitors must be accompanied by a parent. She suggested that perhaps tomorrow they might be able to get an exception, or that perhaps that roaming Elders might be able to give her a blessing tomorrow. At that point, one of the other doctors stood up and said, “Look, it’s 3:30 in the morning, and this friend is here right now. Let’s make that exception right now.” The pediatrician, somewhat uncomfortably radioed the head nurse in the NICU, asking for the exception, which was granted to my great relief. That same doctor who stood up for us then offered to assist Quinn in giving that blessing.

While Quinn went upstairs to give the blessing, I stayed in the lobby and prayed. When Quinn returned to the lobby, we both felt completely energized and we regained an energy that we had lost several hours before. The drive back to Orem at 4:30 a.m. was pleasant, peaceful, and without tired eyelids.