I waited anxiously as they looked into his whereabouts, and was shocked to be told that he was in a different St. Luke’s Hospital another 20 minutes away. I hurriedly plugged the new address into the car navigation and got back on the road. Tightly gripping the steering wheel, I carefully maneuvered through the dark, narrow streets. My nerves were raw and I could barely concentrate but somehow, I made it there at last.

This St. Luke’s University Hospital was big, intimidating, and confusing. I walked from the distant parking lot and down a maze of long hallways in search of the front desk.  When I found it, they directed me to the sixth-floor neuro-intensive care unit (ICU). Once on the elevator, others sensed my urgency and quietly stepped aside to let me exit first. And then, standing just outside the unit, I froze—unable to step through the doors. After 40 years of working in hospitals, and providing rehab services to patients in the ICU, I was simply not prepared to walk in as a parent—a parent who was so desperate to see her son before he drew his last breath. Exhaling slowly, I stepped into the unknown. I was no sooner on the unit floor when a resident intercepted me and asked me to follow him to the conference room to discuss Matt’s condition. Wait, I thought. I was here to see Matt! I needed to see Matt!  

Determinedly I pushed my way into his room. My heart heaved at the sight of Matt hooked up to multiple IVs, tubes, and a ventilator.  His head was partially shaved and grotesquely wrapped in gauze. A tube was dangling from the top of his skull. How easy it would have been, then and there, to succumb to my despair and breakdown and sob uncontrollably. I reached out to tenderly touch him and let him know that I was there. “I love you,” I said, kissing him. There was no sign of recognition when I spoke his name. His body lay motionless. I held back my tears for a more private moment together and turned to face the doctor and the grim news. After expressing his sympathy, he escorted me to a conference room where he matter-of-factly pointed to the CAT scan and the massive bleeding in Matt’s brain. He explained that his situation was critical. He did not believe, or offer any hope that Matt would survive. 

The physician’s prognosis was based on more than just the CAT scan. Victims of trauma or critical illness are assessed for impaired consciousness using the Glasgow Coma Scale. Later I would learn that the GCS is scored from 3 to 15. Fifteen is normal. An initial score of greater than 11 is associated with a 90% chance of recovery. A score of less than 5 is associated with an 80% chance of being in a lasting vegetative state or death. Matt’s GCS was 3, indicating severe brain injury. The doctor said they would not rush us to decide if or when to take Matt off of life support. It seemed so desperate, so dire, and so impossibly hopeless—and as I stood all alone at Matt’s bedside, I felt the world crashing in on me. I prayed, Jesus, please rescue Matt! You are his only hope.

“Without a miracle, Matt is not going to make it,” I texted my family and pastor, “we are going to have to let him go.”  Pastor Dave texted back, “Praying for a miracle.”  I responded, “After meeting with the doctor, I think it may be best for Matt to go home to be with the Lord.”  

This was one of the many moments that I would lean into my faith to get me through. Prayer and faith are a big part of who I am and always have been. Going to church with my mother and siblings is some of my earliest memories.  Sunday school, choir, youth group, and prayer were an integral part of my childhood, and my spirituality has never wavered.  Throughout my life, my faith has grown and matured with me. Did I ask God: Why is this happening to Matt and our family? Yes.  Did I pray for a miracle? Yes. But I also knew that bad things can happen to anyone. So, what I asked God for most, was to help me cope with the uncertainty and the unbearable sorrow that lay ahead.