Without a Word_ How a Boy's Unspoken Love Changed Everything - Jill Kelly [56]
I’d watched Hunter struggle so many times and battle back. He was resilient. I thought about the many times he had been in the ICU on a respirator with pneumonia and the times we were sure it was the end of the road. I just couldn’t let myself think he would die.
When I pulled into the emergency lot to park the car, a man stopped me. Before I could say anything he said, “We’ll park your car for you, Mr. Kelly.”
“That’s okay, I’ll park it,” I replied.
However, he insisted and said once again, “You just go on in, Mr. Kelly. We’ll take care of your car.”
I thought that was strange, but I realized why when I got inside the first set of doors to the emergency room.
Time seemed to stand still. My mother came over to where I was kneeling on the floor next to Hunter. “He needs to go to Children’s Hospital, Mom—right now,” I pleaded. “They know what to do to help him. He has to go there.”
I begged my mother to do something, anything, to make things better. “What about his lungs? Maybe he needs to be on a respirator.”
“Jill, he’s already on a respirator.” My mother gently tried to explain that the hospital crew was doing everything possible to save Hunter and that a team from Children’s was on their way.
The frenzied activity of the hospital staff continued. I could hear the sound of the machines surrounding my son. Tubes were coming from everywhere on his pale little body. Every effort was being made to save Hunter’s life.
Suddenly I felt very light-headed and queasy. I looked down at Hunter and then turned to my mom: “I don’t feel so good.” I was quickly whisked away into an adjacent room and laid down on a gurney. I thought I was going to pass out; I was sure I’d throw up.
My mother started to gently rub my back. Anxious to return to Hunter’s side, I sat back up. Just then a nurse walked in and handed my mother a can of orange juice and said, “She should drink this.” I quickly downed a few sips of orange juice and got up from the gurney.
As my mother and I rushed back to Hunter’s room, a doctor came up and said to me, “Mrs. Kelly, would you like to take a look at Hunter’s chest x-ray?” I followed him while my mom returned to Hunter.
He led me to where Hunter’s x-ray was displayed. Much to my shock, his lungs looked great. Better than ever. I had looked at every one of Hunter’s chest x-rays through the years, and inexplicably, this time he didn’t have pneumonia.
It wasn’t his lungs this time, so what was it?
Is it his heart?
There has to be something we can do, I thought to myself.
As my eyes filled with tears, I turned to the doctor. “Is there any other machine Hunter can go on?”
The doctor’s response is forever etched in my memory: he shook his head and said, “We love Hunter, too. We’ve done everything we possibly could, Mrs. Kelly.”
I’ll never forget that moment. Standing there in an unfamiliar hospital with a doctor I did not know, with complete strangers still struggling to draw any signs of life out of my only son, a sense of gratitude and peace quieted my soul. And for just a second, I was okay.
Because they loved Hunter, too.
I hurried back to Hunter’s side just as two nurses from Children’s Hospital arrived. They had flown by helicopter and had gotten there as fast as they could. (I would find out later that they knew before they came there was nothing more they could do for Hunter. But they came anyway.) I immediately recognized one of them and felt relieved and hopeful again. She came over to where I was sitting and kneeled down beside me. I looked at her and asked in desperation, “Is there anything more you can do?”
She shook her head and quietly said, “I’m so sorry, Jill. I’m so sorry.”
My mother came over, wrapped her arms around me—and we fell apart. Side by side we sat there next to our beloved little boy, just weeping, sharing our anguish, while the medical team continued to work on Hunter. After what seemed like hours, I looked up at the nurse closest to me and reluctantly