Miracle on Children’s Ward
A true story by Susan Fox
Easter lilies decorated the church podium and platform. This morning there was an unusual silence as I sat oblivious to people around me. I wanted to run out and scream! The sermon on death only accentuated my fear. Today, my son’s life was hanging on the balance. That evening the phone rang. It was midnight. "Merle, our baby, God is he okay?” A swelling fear alarmed me. “This is the hospital calling...”
On this Easter Sunday, Merle was ten months old. With a ravenous appetite as a newborn, he matured to a robust, vibrant little boy, gifted with a jovial personality that intrigued us all. He exuded a sense of gaiety with his frequent bubbles of laughter. Always cute and playful, his spirit filled our home with warmth. He was a happy addition and playmate for his sister. But all that had changed this Good Friday weekend.
Our plans for a holiday had been altered. Merle had shown gradual signs of discomfort and loss of appetite. I cradled him in my arms as he cringed with pain. Assuming this might just be a flu bug, I reasoned he would rid of his misery with baby aspirin and fluids. I rocked him, cuddling his little frame close to me. His tired body, so desirous of sleep, only gave way to groans of pain. Saturday morning rolled around. “We have to take him to the hospital,” I lamented helplessly.
At the hospital emergency room he was examined and admitted for further observations. The doctor assumed that his tummy may have been irritated by the aspirin or bad case of flu. “we’ll carry on with fluids and perhaps by morning things may have corrected themselves,” was the doctor’s conclusion.
I turned to leave, as a young mother, I felt for the first time the pangs of having to leave my child behind, not knowing whether I’d ever see him again. That evening he was put on intravenous. The frequent visits and calls only cautioned us to ‘wait and see.’ Hours of uncertainly lingered.
It was Easter Sunday. At home after church, I found myself anxiously pacing the floor, searching for an answer. God had my attention. “ Lord what are you trying to tell us. Lord please heal him, spare him.” Although my focus was now directed heavenward, my fears recurred as the nurse responded there had been no change. Later, the Pediatrician called to console us, “we’ll carry on the usual intravenous fluids and by next morning the problem may resolve itself.” Exhausted from metal anxiety, I went to bed. The quietness of the dark seemed even darker now.
“Whatever it is, Lord, bring it to light.” My heart writhed with anguish, knowing our baby’s life was hanging in the balance. A clock was ticking. A shrill ring of the phone broke the silence. It was midnight. I grabbed the phone.
“I made my final rounds,” the doctor anxiously replied. Something is seriously wrong with your baby. I detected an unusual bulge in his tummy. As I lightly messaged it, he threw up an enormous blob of brown fluid. We rushed him into the x-ray room, and I spotted a big swollen lymph node in his intestine, causing a blockage,” explained the doctor. “We have to do demand surgery, but need your consent on the phone. We’ll call a specialist immediately to perform the operation. We cannot guarantee the outcome, but we’ll call back in about two hours.” We gave our consent and the receiver clicked. Over our cottage hung a dark cloud. I returned to bed , but sleep eluded me.
Tossing and turning the matter over and over in my heart, I argued with God. “why? Why this lilted life? You gave us this son.” A thousand questions flooded my mind, as I gaped in the dark. Reaching heavenward, I cried to God in deep anguish, waiting and praying. God was silent. The night seemed to last forever.
Finally I resolved in my heart, He knows best. I gave up. Lifting my heart to God, with wrenching agony, I prayed the most difficult words a mother can utter, “not my will, but thine.” Resolved. A surge of peace came over me, I felt tranquility like a flower on a cactus. Shadowed by His presence, my fears now subsided.
The phone interrupted my security. “this is the hospital calling. Surgery is over. Merle is just waking up from the anesthesia,” the doctor announced triumphantly.
“Thank you Jesus!” I breathed a sigh of relief. Jesus quietened the turbulent waters of my heart during the darkest valley of my life. After eleven days recuperating in the hospital, Merle returned home. Gradually he regained strength.
God stepped in during the darkest hour and proved his all-sufficient power. I learned to lean on Him always, and my son grew up to trust God for giving him life and hope. What God did that night on Children’s Ward deserves a tribute of praise, and will always be for me a miracle to remember.