Being Love in the Darkest Times

To witness a child's suffering and watch all efforts fail to alleviate that suffering is heart-wrenching. Knowing that God is capable of completely healing every child, but does not, is almost too much to bear. I have lost count of how many children I've seen die in my 20-year career in the pediatric intensive care unit. Many children I can still name. I can tell you their diagnoses, their entire hospital course, the date and time of death, who was in the room, even what blanket the child had wrapped around him or her. But I'm ashamed to say that I cannot name them all. I promised myself that I would remember every single one, but over the years, some have faded. I do remember mothers' pain. Nothing challenges my faith more than witnessing the moment of death. Hearing the anguish in the mothers' cries, seeing the devastation in their faces, and watching their hearts break is something I feel in my own heart every single time. I admit that I don't understand how a child's death can fit into God's plan. Sometimes, I can rationalize it momentarily by pointing to the amount of physical suffering the child was experiencing and knowing that in death, there is no longer pain. For a child with a traumatic or anoxic brain injury, I know from experience that if there is recovery, that child's quality of life most likely will be very poor. So perhaps death during the acute injury phase is more merciful. But is it ever merciful for a child to die? Jesus healed many children while he was on earth. He even healed one who had already died (Luke 8:49-56). I have seen miraculous recoveries in children that defy medical explanation. I've seen the child who was found submerged in a pool for an unknown amount of time wake up and recognize his mom; then with therapy, he recovered almost fully. I have seen a baby endure an hour of chest compressions, two weeks of extracorporeal life support, three open heart surgeries, seizures, blood clots, and countless infections, and not only survive but thrive and be discharged home with her parents. But these are unusual cases called miracles. The norm—the expected course of illness or injury—is not full healing and is often death, even for children. How can this be part of the plan of a loving, merciful God? That is where I simply must trust God. I must believe that his plan is bigger and better than my understanding. "God is greater than our hearts, and he knows everything" (1 John 3:20b, NIV). When my faith is challenged and limited by my understanding, I look to what I know–God is love. "Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God... since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another" (1 John 4:7a, 11, NIV). During the darkest times in my patients' families' lives, how can I live out that truth to them? It is actually quite simple. It is in the small things that make the worst time in this family's life become the best possible experience. It is moving the baby out of a crib into an adult bed so the mother can lay next to her child in the final moments, even if it is 3:00 in the morning and it takes four nurses and two respiratory therapists. It is honoring the life of the child to that moment, asking questions about the child's favorite things, letting the parents share memories. It is keeping the patient on life support as long as it takes for the last family member to arrive and say goodbye. It is giving another nurse an extra break so she can cry or scream or call her own children. It is crying with the family when support is removed. It is saying a silent prayer as I witness the moment when Jesus takes a child's soul to heaven. It is allowing silence in the room and not trying to say something to "make it all better," because nothing can. It is just being present. Being love.