Caroline lost a pinky and I gained a stronger faith

This post has been a long time coming--I knew one day I'd be ready to tell this story in its entirety, but this morning it hit me; now's the time.  It's painful to remember; it may be hard to read; I know it's hard to write, but I promised myself that when I did finally write it I would be totally honest even though I'd rather not me.  I'm not proud of every moment lived during those long days; here I go...

The evening of August 7, 2002 started like most other evenings in our chaotic filled, four children under 6, just moved to Pittsburgh life.  We were getting ready to have a couple who Chris worked with over for dinner.  Chris was grilling; I was getting dressed; the children were riding bikes and running around on the patio.  Chris came upstairs to tell me something and we heard a scream.  "I'll go." he said not especially in a hurry.  Bike spills, arguments over toys, screaming for the heck of it were all part of our life.  I had one shoe on when I heard him yell up, "This is a real one come quick!"  I raced down the stairs already dialing 911.  I don't know what told me to do that; I just knew.

"What's the nature of your emergency?" a voice said.  "I don't know, hold on" I stammered as I approached the patio.  "It's her finger." said Chris, "It's barely attached."  I repeated those words to the operator as I ran in for towels.  Caroline was reaching for me; Chris was trying to bandage the hand; and I was scanning for the other children.  William up on the hill, Christopher peaking around the corner, Sarah Katherine at my elbow.  All accounted for.   We hung up with 911; I looked at Chris and said, "I can't go do this alone."  I am freakishly calm in crisis; I go into a zone and plan.  "Chris call my daddy and tell him we're heading to Children's."  Daddy was the head of the children's hospital in Augusta and I was hoping he'd know someone in Pittsburgh.  Meanwhile I called a family that we had met a few times, been to their house once.

The phone rang and Paul answered. "Hey Paul.  Am I interrupting your dinner?"  He tells this part of the story pretty humorously. He calls it a "Southern SOS"  He says it cracked him up that he could hear Caroline shrieking in the background, could hear an ambulance and I was asking whether I had interrupted his dinner!  I couldn't help it; I was taught to always ask between the hours of 6-8 pm if I was interrupting dinner; habits die hard.  Once he said no (even though they were eating ) I explained briefly, they were loading Caroline and I into the ambulance, that we needed help with the other children.  Chris waited for Paul to come over and I was gone.  As the ambulance doors closed, I saw our dinner guests drive up.  As soon as Paul got there Chris left for the hospital.  It took a good 8 months to convince the children that Mr. Garlitz was NOT a babysitter.

Dr. Richard Saladino, who I now seriously believe is an angel, met us as we were wheeled in.  I heard him say he had just spoken to my father.  As Dr. Saladino was examining Caroline Chris arrived.  He started to say, "I am so sorry.  I was supposed to be outside." but I stopped him.  Not once, not then and never have I blamed him.  I have never blamed anyone; I have wanted to blame someone or something, but only God ever got close to being blamed.  Dr. Saladino told us she needed x-rays and he was going to call plastics.  The next few hours are a blur; I called the church we had been attending; and Dr. Saladino brought me scrubs to put on as I was covered in blood.  Although he was officially "off the case" after plastic surgery was brought in, he stayed close by and continually called my father with updates.  Around 11:00 pm they decided they'd admit us and she would have surgery the next day.  I will never forget the fellow looking at me and saying, "This is really not as bad as you think.  We're just going to put some pins in it.  She'll be fine."  I held onto those words for the next 24 hours; they continue to haunt me all these years later.

Chris went home and Caroline and I were admitted to the PICU. The next day surgery kept getting pushed back.  It was hard--Caroline couldn't eat anything and she was on narcotic pain medicine so she was very grumpy.  She kept asking for her siblings, so finally I told Chris to bring them down.  They were there for 30 minutes when the doctor finally showed up around 8:15 pm to take Caroline to surgery.  Chris said he would take them to the Garlitz and come back.  The fellow and the attending were both standing there.  The attending had yet to actually see the hand but the fellow said, "we'll be in the operating room for less than an hour if you just want to have them wait.  So off to the family waiting room we went.

Two and a half hours went by and no one came out.  Finally both doctors emerged and asked to see us in a private conference room.  I knew this wasn't good.  The attending began to explain that her finger had been severed and crushed.  The crushing meant they had to snip the ends of the arteries and veins to tie them back together which on a two year old was very complicated.  He said they had to intubate her but they were doing everything possible to save the finger.  Finally he said, "We can't promise anything.  This is a very bad serious injury."  I looked across the table at the fellow; my eyes locked with his and a calm icy voice came from my throat. "You said it was no big deal and she'd be fine."  I held his gaze until he finally looked away.  We never saw that man again, and I'm told he was immediately dismissed from the case.  The attendant finished the conversation with, "This could take several more hours."  As difficult as it was for Chris he left with the children.  At 11:30 pm Dr. Saladino showed up in the waiting room.  He'd worked a 12 hour day but sat with me until 1 am--until Caroline was settled in the ICU with leeches attached to her finger.

The next morning Chris arrived and we learned how to help the staff keep leeches on the pinky.  Caroline was in a medically induced coma.  She had a fever and was on antibiotics.  We were told it was a wait and see.  That was a very dark time.  I honestly don't remember much except staring at the monitors measuring the blood flow and watching her pinky turn darker, then pinker, then darker over and over and over.  People from Athens and all around the country called--good friends wanting to offer their love and prayers, and Chris screened them for me. I just couldn't talk to anyone.  I suppose in a way I thought if I don't talk about it, it didn't happen.  And I couldn't bear to think about or answer the questions--the what ifs.

At the end of the second day, Chris arrived home to find a basket on the front steps.  There was a casserole, bagels, treats, and a note.  "I heard about your daughter.  You're in my prayers.  Leave the basket out and it will be filled everyday by your neighbors."  Chris called me choked up.  Who could have done this?  How did anyone even know?  We found out--my mother was in an aerobics class in Augusta Ga.  She told one of her friends about it.  This friend said, "I think that's where our Rabbi moved last summer."  She made a phone call and sure enough, Rabbi Amy lived in our neighborhood.  She put the basket together and then spread the word.  For the next two weeks our family was provided for by complete strangers--they wouldn't tell me names because they wanted no thanks.  I do know the group was made up of Jewish people, Muslims, Catholics, and many other denominations.  This was the community of God--God called by different names, worshiped in different ways--but a community reaching out to the stranger in need.

Three days into it I got a call from one of Caroline's godmothers.  She demanded that Chris put me on the phone and she told me she was on her way from Virginia.  She could only be gone one night but she was coming.  She left her 2 year old and 6 month twins with her husband and drove straight through.  When Julie arrived I was a mess.  I hadn't showered in three days, I just sat in the rocking chair when I was allowed in the ICU and wandered the halls when I wasn't making calls to hire sitters to care for the other children.  Chris handled the leeches.  Julie took my hands in hers, looked me straight in the eye and said, "You're going home tonight.  Chris is fine here and you have three other children who are scared and they need to see their mommy."  Just as she finished talking, the doctor came in and said things were not looking good.  We were going to have to make a decision soon as to whether to take the pinky off.  He suggested that the following morning we donate blood in case she needed a blood transfusion.  He said the next 24-36 hours were crucial.  I asked him if we could wait to make any decision until my father got there.  Absolutely he said.

Julie and I went home.  We played with the children; we drank wine; and we talked about everything except the accident.  I needed that.  At 5 am the phone rang; it was Chris, "They've had to transfuse her four times during the night.  You need to get down here.  Her temp is 105 and we have to sign papers to have the pinky come off."  I scrambled to get ready; Julie poured me a thermos of coffee, kissed my cheek and said we'll be praying.  And I was off.  As I arrived the doctors were already in the room.  "My daddy gets her at 9 am, can't we wait?"  The doctor kindly looked at me, I could see Chris behind him his eyes filled with tears.  "Mrs. Doyle, we can't wait."  I couldn't focus; I felt like I was watching a movie that I was in.  "Please I said,  please tell me that we've done everything to save it.  One day she's going to look at me and ask me that question.  I have to know."  The doctor took my hand as he gently said, "Mrs. Doyle if we don't take that pinky off now, she will die."

Julie brought the children down to us; she had to get back.  I knew she'd pray the whole way.  Michele Garlitz went to get my parents from the airport.  Chris and I said very little.  We sat in the family waiting room; SK read her book (she has always used books as a refuge), William played with action figures, and Christopher sat next to me holding my hand and patting my leg.  Mama and Daddy arrived and Caroline was still in surgery. They walked into the waiting room and Chris walked out.  I could hear him sobbing in the hall; Daddy pushed me and said go to him.

I knew in my heart what Chris needed from me.  I had repeatedly told him that I didn't blame him, but he needed me to put my arms around him and say it again.  He needed to feel it.  And I couldn't do it.  I didn't blame him, but I knew if I touched him I would break into a thousand pieces and I didn't know if I would be able to recover.  I made it about me, and I to this day am deeply ashamed.  Chris had been my rock through it all letting me have whatever I needed.  I wanted/needed to be the one at the hospital and so he went home every night.  He loved me and cared for me unconditionally not counting the cost to his own emotions and I didn't do the same for him.  Instead of taking him into my arms, I said, "let's walk around." As we walked I continued to talk.  All of my fears came tumbling out--how mean other children might be, she'd never wear gloves, and when she got engaged and held her hand out there it would be so obvious.  "You know" Chris said, "At least we already know what mean people will zero in on with her.  We'll give her the skills she needs before that happens.  We ARE going to make this okay for her."   I reached for his hand, and we returned to the waiting room.

We spent the next four days in the ICU; Caroline was still in a medically induced coma, still on a ventilator, and I still wouldn't leave.  No matter how much Chris tried to convince me to go home and get some rest, all I could remember is that the night I left she was transfused and I wasn't there.  I have never again been able to leave a child in the hospital--So many little things happened during this time.  Every morning Mrs. Saladino (yep the ER doctor's wife) would bring me coffee and a homemade pastry.  Until we were checking out, I assumed she worked at the hospital.  No, she dropped her children at school and brought me breakfast because her husband had told her about the little blue eyed girl with blonde curls that had touched his heart.  Every day as he came on and as he left, Dr. Saladino came to the ICU to see us.

One evening after Chris had gone home daddy and I walked down to a restaurant.  I was very quiet--not a good sign, and Daddy knew that well.  He let me sit and think for a while and then asked what was going on.  I broke down and sobbed as I laid out my fears.  "Daddy, I'm the one who's vain not Caroline.  How could God do this to my little girl just to teach me a lesson?  Why is he letting her suffer for my vanity, for my pride?  How am I going to tell her that she lost her finger because I'm full of vanity?"  Daddy let me get it all out and then he said, "Katherine Mouse, that's not the God you've talked to me about for years.  You've taught me about the God of love and care and compassion.  Reach deep down inside yourself and find that God again.  You need that God again.  That God is here.  That God is in the Garlitz and your neighbors that bring food.  That God is in the Saladino's, Julie, in all those calling, writing and praying.  Find that God.  And teach Caroline about that God because that is the real God, the only God.  You taught me that."

The next evening they were going to take Caroline off the ventilator.  The doctors had been wonderful sharing everything with my father although he didn't have privileges at this hospital.  But for this they told us we both had to wait outside.  Daddy told me it would be just a few minutes, but the clock kept moving and they weren't getting us.  Daddy began pacing and I knew something was wrong.  I pressed my face to the glass door and I saw a doctor look over at me; he motioned to the nurse and said something.  She ran for the door and I thought, "What did I do?"  Instead she pushed it open and called for my daddy, "Dr Kanto, Dr ___________, said the hell with the rules we need you to help your granddaughter.  She's fighting it."  Daddy ran into the unit and within minutes it was over.  She needed a familiar voice and touch and I thank God that the doctor looked beyond the "rules" and grasped onto the need.  He didn't allow legalism to block out love, rules to block out people.

Slowly over the next two days they began to reduce her drugs and she came out of her coma.  They moved us to a room which was good for the other children.  They needed to see her.  But she wasn't her; she wasn't Caroline.  She sat in my lap staring straight ahead and only vaguely responding to commands.  Daddy explained it was called ICU psychosis.  I called it living hell.  I just wanted my bubbly, outgoing, precocious two year old back. Late in the afternoon on the second day she turned around in my lap, wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered, "I was scared until that man kissed me when they put that mask on my face.  And he said in my ear I would always be beautiful."  And with those words she started coming back to us.  I asked everyone who had done that for her; I wanted to thank the man who had not only kept her from being scared in the OR but who I also believed was bringing her back to me from the psychosis.  I asked every person who was in the OR and everyone said it wasn't them.  Yes, I believe in angels.

We were discharged and went home.  We spent a long time preparing the other children, worrying about how they were going to handle it and all they wanted to know was where was the finger?  It was not as easy for Caroline.  During the day she was fine, but she could not be in her room by herself and she had nightmares every night.  Four or five days after we were home the phone rang, it was Dr. Saladino.  He was just checking in--I began to cry and tell him about the nightmares and the constant waking up.  It was like having a newborn again but a newborn I couldn't soothe.  He just listened, but that's what I needed.  The next day we were going for a follow up appointment and he asked us to stop by.  After we saw the doctors we went to see Dr. Saladino.  Caroline climbed up into his lap and he gave her a stuffed dog.  He told her this dog was going to take care of her and the nightmares would go away.  On the way home Caroline named him Shiloh.  That night for the first time, she didn't wake up screaming.  She still couldn't go to bed by herself, but at least once she was asleep she stayed that way.  Shiloh and Caroline were inseparable for years.  It's only been in the last two that he hasn't shared her bed every single night.   Now he just hangs out waiting to be needed.

It's been 11 years.  That conversation I feared did come.  One day walking home from school Caroline asked me if we had done everything possible to save her pinky and I could honestly say yes. And I told her the whole story.  We both cried and then we laughed.   Caroline lost a pinky that summer but over the years because of that our family has learned so many things.

We have learned what it means to care for the stranger, the vulnerable, the hurting.  We have learned that God appears in many ways and in many people.  We have learned what it means to stick together as a family, unfortunately both boys have been in fights defending their sister as others picked on her because of the loss. But those times are few and far between.  Mostly people are curious or don't even notice.   I have learned what it means to have strength and courage, and to laugh at what I never dreamed I could laugh at.  Whenever Caroline gets a manicure she asks for 10% off--says it's only fair.  During that time, I learned from Chris  what it felt like to be given and to receive unconditional love--to put someone above yourself and your own needs, and I have vowed that others will feel that from me.

I have learned what it means to take control and to own your story.  When we moved to Virginia it was the first time people didn't "know the story" and Caroline told it.  Each time she has changed schools, she takes control, she tells her own story before anyone can ask.  Does it still break my heart?  Sometimes.  In fifth grade she said someone called her a baby because she still wore mittens.  That year for Christmas SK bought three pairs of gloves, cut off the left pinky and sewed the hole closed.  A labor of love.

Caroline lost her pinky; I'd turn that clock back any day.  I'd take that pain and any future pain away from her in a minute.  But I would hold onto the lessons I learned.  The lessons about who God is and the goodness of people.  Caroline lost a pinky and I gained a stronger faith.

                                                                Shiloh hanging out.

Cookie bouquet from Aunt Meredith

A Welcome Home Tea Party