The morning of Hannah’s surgery, I recall the sun beaming through the windows of our hospital room and there being such an overwhelming sense of peace surrounding us. It was the kind of morning that puts you in a great mood. It’s exactly what I needed that morning because, despite the peace that surrounded me, I was overcome by fear. It was close to 7 a.m. and the specialist had just left our room from checking in on us from the night before. We weren’t allotted to go down to the pre-op area until about 11 a.m. so we had time to spare. I remember holding Hannah and singing her a hymn by Travis Green, Soul Will Sing. This song still brings me to tears today. I’ve always recognized that in moments like this, where there is so much fear and uncertainty, the only thing that has been able to bring me resounding peace is worship. So that’s exactly what I did. I worshipped. I think there was a very humbling and real moment about the time I spent with Hannah. I began to try to understand that whatever was going to happen today was not in my control and all I could do was worship and pray that everything was going to be okay.

Sing Hallelujah
Oh, my soul will sing,
Hallelujah…
You reign forever, Oh my soul will sing,
Hallelujah…
You brought me over, Oh my soul will sing
Hallelujah

Travis greene

I sang this song to her up until she fell asleep and was able to calmly be taken into the operating room. This surgery was close to about 2-3 hours long. I won’t lie and tell you that I remember what I did during that waiting period. It almost felt as though whatever I did within that time would somehow influence the outcome. I just wanted it to be over and I wanted to go home. My husband and I sat and waited to get the call about when she would be brought back up to the floor. I forgot to mention that after the surgery, Hannah was set to be sent up to the PICU for monitoring considering this was an open-neck surgery.

When we got the call that she had been transferred over to the PICU, I tried to pace myself because I didn’t know what I was walking into. The PICU floor felt so cold and it was fitting because it’s the last floor you hope to be sent to. As I walked in, the image of my daughter is one I’ll never forget. Hannah was intubated and connected to a ventilator machine, an IV pole that hung a number of pain medications that ran intravenously through her veins, and in her nose was a tube that allowed for gravity to suction whatever blood or fluids that had entered her stomach during the surgery. Despite what we were looking at, to all of our understanding, the surgery was successful. Looking at her was so painful. She didn’t deserve this. However, I was confused. In our post-operative plan, we had been told she would be extubated before she was brought upstairs. They told us that they had trouble extubating her but not to fret, that this was common and she just needed some time. They said we would try again tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and the day after that and nothing. That week they tried extubating Hannah about 3 times and were unsuccessful. It wasn’t until the very last attempt that everyone realized that something much more serious was going on. I was in the room for that last try and sometimes I wish I hadn’t been. Her ENT doctor had personally come up to the floor to try to extubate her himself. The room was filled with a standby respiratory therapist, all available ICU nurses, the fellow, and attending physicians. I sat on the couch next to her bed and watched as they tried to extubate her. I’ll never forget the sound they all made when Hannah was extubated and the sound of her cry sounded as if someone was strangling her. She could not breathe. Hearing her grasp for air like that immediately caused me to sob uncontrollably and I was escorted out of the room.

What happened down there?