On This Day In 2008

January 11, 2008.

It was a cold, grey morning. The sky was heavy with precipitation. Kris and I were off work, we were planning a trip to Belize, and I needed a swimming suit, among other things. In 2008, swimsuits in January were more difficult to come by in Iowa than they are today, but I had a few shops in mind.

But first there was the CT scan, one that would change the course of our lives forever.

Ava, our sweet little toddler started wobbling, running into things just before Christmas. Yes, wobbling is what two-year-olds do, but this was different. It was a drunken stumbling, not baby wobbles. Also, she would put her tiny hand on the back of her neck at the base of her head and say, “Momma my head hurts.” I took her to the doctor several times only to be told she was fine. I was beginning to think I was crazy. Our family doctor had been away, but she was back so I asked Kris to take her. He called me that afternoon at work and told me they had done lots of tests and she was cleared but our doctor, knowing us very well, was concerned. She ordered the CT for Friday, January 11, 2008.

I almost canceled that CT scan. Honestly, I didn’t even know what a CAT scan was. Up until that time, I was lucky enough not to have a reason to know. I wanted to stay in the clouds. My co-workers were well-versed in Ava’s symptoms and my dilemma about feeling crazy. Did I need to put Ava through this? How do you explain to everyone that you know something is not right?

We found our way through Mercy to the imaging center. Everyone thought this would be a quick scan, but suddenly a toddler derailed everyone’s day. Ava was tiny but very mighty and she was not having it…AT ALL.

Hold up… I forget that many of you know of Ava, but did not know her personally. Let me tell you about her.

She had long blonde hair with soft flowing curls. I can’t tell you the number of people who asked me if I curled her hair, but it was all natural. Big blue eyes full of joy and round full cheeks. She had a fiery sass and a sense of style that ranged from swimming suits all year long, cowboy boots with shorts, and dresses every day if she could. Ava didn’t walk until she was 15 months old, not because she couldn’t but because she didn’t feel the need. When I wasn’t at work she was on my hip, and all was right with the world that way. I was only concerned because you know…society says differently. She was perfect in every way. Our “Stinker Bell.”

Okay back to the CT scan…Ava was NOT having it. She wanted back on my hip and nothing else…Period with a capital P. Schedules were being interrupted and anxiety was rising in the room, and I was very close to taking my baby and leaving. They suggested a sedative which did not work… it had the opposite effect on Ava and for quite some time she was inconsolable and angry. They moved us off to a room, just the three of us, and she finally calmed down and went to sleep. The scan was finally completed and Ava slept on the exam table, while Kris and I sat with her in a tiny hospital green exam room. I had no idea how many hours had passed.

The day is foggy in my head, but I remember when the door opened so many people flooded in and someone said the words, “There’s a mass on Ava’s brain.” I couldn’t completely comprehend…my thinking brain stopped working. There were words like …  no neurosurgeons available, helicopter, Minnesota, ambulance, cannot move her, sedation …

Whirling … that is the word I think of to describe my mental and physical state in that moment.

As fast as they came in, they cleared out…we were alone. Kris got on the phone…making arrangements for Emma our oldest. I was confused and stunned, in a daze, I called my dad, but I don’t remember much else. I may have called my boss too. I placed myself next to Ava and stayed. I didn’t know it at the moment, but I would stay next to Ava literally day and night nonstop for over a month except for scans and surgeries and an occasional shower.

We got to Mercy in the morning, but when they loaded us on an ambulance the sun was setting. They wanted to get us to St Paul before the interstate was shut down due to the snowstorm. The trip to Minnesota was a blur. Ava woke up from sedation. She was groggy but calm, in a very different state than when they sedated her. The EMT coaxed a smile from her. This allowed me to breathe for the first time since we had arrived at the hospital that morning.

Standing in the emergency room in St. Paul, I suddenly realized Ava and I were very much alone. Kris was on his way with his sister in the storm. We were sent to another tiny room, this one smaller and it was a tan color. Ava was on my lap, and I was twirling her curls around my finger. The neurosurgeon had met us at the emergency room door, he was serious, but kind. I gave him the CD scan of Ava’s “mass.” This thing in her brain was still unnamed, but at some point in the day it was described to us as “bigger than a golf ball, but smaller than a baseball.”

Everyone kept asking me the same questions, when did it start, what did you see, and what other symptoms has she had? Surrounded by hard, cold surfaces, plain walls, and more questions. Everything was dimly quiet, and I was alone. I don’t think it was dim or quiet, but shock and trauma made everything seem that way, like a dense fog or heavy blanket. I have never been one to shy away from being alone, but this type alone seeped into my bones that day and stayed.

That day’s events come to me in clips and cuts. One moment stands out. Briefly, there was nothing else. No doctors, no nurses, no TV, no phone, just Ava and I, in a tiny room. She was rubbing my arm with her tiny fingers, and I was playing with her silky hair. It was the last moment Ava, and I had just the two of us before the last strand of unknowing innocence was fully ripped away.

There were more tests…an MRI this time with a different sedation drug that worked much better. She didn’t turn into a wild child this time. More doctors kept coming in speculating about the tumor and giving us their thoughts on what it might be and what the outcomes could be. Words like surgery, chemo, loss of function, may never speak again, might not walk again, may not be able to swallow, could die… were spinning out of control in my head.

At that moment, in my opinion, our neurosurgeon was the only one who had his eyes on the task. I heard him tell Kris he would take care of Ava as he would his own child who was the same age. This I could relate to. The rest of these white coats were a blur of scary words and unknowns.

After a sleepless night in the hospital, the doctor gave us some prescriptions and sent us home for a few days. Oral steroids were needed to reduce the swelling in Ava’s brain in order to operate on the tumor. Home was the only place I wanted to be and yet the last place I wanted to be. After the traumatic events that had just happened, I was horrified at the idea of being so far from the hospital. At discharge, along with the prescriptions and basic instructions , one of the other white coats said, “Enjoy your time together.”

Together we drove home, in shock and dismay… grieving for what once was and praying to hold on to what should be. Joy was faked, pictures were taken and hugs were abundant.

If you stayed this far, thank you for listening to my recollection of January 11, 2008. I sat down at my computer today, January 11, 2025, at 11:11 am, to tell you about my girl who died at 11 years of age on 9/11/1017. This was just one of hundreds of days like this, many much worse. Trauma and grief are something I battle daily. The blessing of Ava was so worth it though! She was my rainbow baby and will forever be my sunshine.