As I write this, I am one week away from the end of my Pediatrics rotation in nursing school.
Since the beginning of nursing school, I've been dreading this course. I had no idea how it would affect me, how I'd respond in clinical situations, or how much composure I would keep in class. This was the class that would hit home. This was the one that I knew could bring up so many traumatic memories. I was filled to the brim with fear on that first day of lecture. Naturally, as the class progressed, I found myself sharing this story with more and more people. I was sweetly reminded of how many compassionate people are in this world. My teachers have showed me so much grace, and I've got some of the most precious friends in the whole wide world. I have made it through only because of a good, good God and those amazing friends and instructors. The class has brought back many memories, and has definitely been challenging. But even more so, I've been reminded of how much respect I have for Peds nurses and doctors. I've been reminded, yet again, of why I chose to pursue this career, and why I want to be in the health care field. I have wanted to share this story in this space for quite a while, but have been at a loss on how to do so. I've sat at my keyboard and wondered how to possibly condense or accurately describe with words such a painful and impactful story in my life. I don't think it is possible to do it perfectly, but nonetheless, I'm gonna try. My youngest brother, Connor, was born when I was 12. Already the oldest of three kids, I was absolutely over the moon to have another little brother. As soon as he was born, I felt more like a second mom to him than a sister. I mothered (and still do mother) my other siblings as well. I took care of him as much as my parents would let me, and as he entered toddler years we developed our own little traditions. At least once a week, you could find him sitting on the counter next to me, helping me bake some kind of treat. He was my little sidekick in everything. My green-eyed little look-alike. The little hand always holding onto mine. As he entered the older toddler years, we noticed a few signs that something was wrong. He woke up frequently at night crying, and we later understood it was from headaches. Some of his motor skills were delayed, particularly running. At two years old, he was scheduled for a CT scan at Lebonheur, and they found an AVM (arterial venous malformation) in his brain. The diagnosis was so scary and unfamiliar. Quickly, things started happening. Two surgeries were scheduled to take place at Lebonheur. The first one went smoothly, and he recovered well. My siblings and I were with my grandparents during the second surgery. Halfway through a movie, my phone rang, and I stepped away to answer the call. I will never forget it. My dad's voice, strained but trying to remain calm for my sake, said something along these lines: "The doctors just had a conference with me and your mom. The AVM is just too complicated for them. They said it's more than they can handle. There is a specialist that they recommended for him. He is a neurosurgeon at a hospital in New York City. And they want us to fly there, tonight." Nothing was the same after that. For the next couple of years, my parents would fly with Connor to New York City for weeks at a time. My siblings and I would alternate staying with different family members until I was old enough to keep them at home. During each trip, he stayed at the hospital in NYC, typically having 1-2 surgeries per stay. The surgeries took many hours, and were incredibly delicate. Connor quickly learned the hospital routine, and things like IVs, vitals, and constant assessments became his normal. Our entire family dynamic changed. When at home, he saw various neurologists, eye doctors, physical therapists, and occupational therapists. About a year into the process, he had a stroke. There was a short time after when he could not walk. His motor function was never the same after. Thus began the heartbreaking adjustment of being in a wheelchair. Each day with him felt precious but delicate. He was the most tender, observant, sweet spirited little boy. He always gave a sweet little grin to people, even when he wasn't feeling well. It only took minutes for him to have a new nurse wrapped around his little finger. When he was four, I began going on the NYC trips with him and my mom. He was an expert flyer at this point. Take-offs made me nervous, so that tiny brave boy decided to always sit in the seat beside me instead of mom. When the plane started to lift off, I'd feel a little hand hold mine. Sometimes he'd say in that sweet voice, "don't be scared, it's just flying". Some of my favorite and hardest memories are holding him in my lap in his hospital room. I'd wrangle all those IV lines and snuggle up in the chair with him. Sometimes I'd just lay in the hospital bed with him and we'd watch movies. His window had a view of the Hudson river, and he loved looking for boats with me. When he felt up to it, we'd explore the city. He had become somewhat of a little New Yorker at that point. In the mornings I'd walk to the closest diner and pick up pancakes for him and we'd make the most of the hospital days. The best thing was hearing him pronounce "LaGuardia airport". I remember walks through times square with him, him waving at the horses in central park, and his endless excitement over how fast the taxis drove. NYC will always, always be dear to my heart. During one of the trips to the city, his doctor asked my mom and I to come into his office. Another moment I'll never forget. He folded his hands and took a few deep breaths. I could feel my moms anxiety beside me. At this point we had grown close to the staff at that Manhattan hospital. I thought I saw some tears in his eyes. Then he said the words. "There isn't anything else that I can do. Of all my years, his case is one of the most complicated I have seen. We've truly tried it all." I remember feeling completely numb. While I knew that the situation was complicated, and that his condition was worsening, I never ever was prepared for that reality to wash over me. Nothing else they could do. It felt unreal. My mom next to me was breaking down. I couldn't. I couldn't get my mind to accept it. We said our goodbyes to every precious person in that NYC hospital, and headed back to Memphis. At this point, out of desperation, doctors were exploring possible alternative treatments, but nothing was ever a good fit. Around this time of uncertainty, a huge blessing happened. Connor got a Make A Wish trip. We all went on a week long Disney Cruise, and it was the absolute sweetest time. It was a week spent away as a family, and we soaked up every single second. I am abundantly grateful for that foundation and what they do for families. A few months later, the hardest time came. It is difficult to type this out, and it is such a broken memory. One day at home, while playing in the living room, Connor collapsed. I remember hearing someone yell for me. Then I remember running in and seeing him. My mom, understandably, was in full panic. I remember running to him and putting him in my lap. I held his little hand and someone brought me a phone, but I can't recall who. I knew it had to be another stroke. I remember saying his name over and over. He wouldn't respond. An ambulance came, and they took him from me. The rest is a blur, up until a helicopter landed in our backyard. I remember my siblings wide, fear filled eyes and their silence. I remember trying to think of how I could possibly reassure them. He was flown to Lebonheur. My mom rode there, my siblings went to family's house, and my dad came to get me. I can't describe to you how I was feeling during that time. Overwhelmed and terrified don't feel like adequate words. So many of the details are difficult to remember, and I think it's because it feels so overwhelming to remember it at all. It was as if my mind refused to allow the gravity of the situation to settle in, and I operated in numbness. For the next couple of months, through Christmas, he remained at Lebonheur with my dad alternating nights with him and nights with us at home. My mom never left his side. We were quickly notified that he had only a couple of months left to live. The stroke had done extensive damage, and he would not ever recover. Again, I have no words to describe it. At that point, he was unable to speak or move on his own. It was heart wrenching to see him like that. The first time I visited the hospital during that time, my dad reminded me that he would not be able to talk to me. I remember choking back tears and then laying on the hospital bed next to him. I held his hand and started telling him stories about our dogs back at home. And during one part of the story, he grinned. Another moment forever in my heart. The nurses and doctors at Lebonheur completely embraced my family like nothing I have seen before. They were already close to Connor. Many of them had been with us from the beginning. The compassion, love, support, and strength that they gave us during that time was incredible. Many of them are still in contact with us, and one doctor still sends a card every year. I remember sobbing in the hallway outside that hospital room, and being embraced by a nurse. I remember my mom's unending strength. I remember trying to come to grips with what was going to happen. I remember pushing down the overwhelming grief so that I could seem strong for my other younger siblings. Those months feel so hazy to remember. Everything felt unbearable and unreal. I was 17 at the time, my brother was 12 and my sister was 9. Those months were, again, unreal. And in January of that year, when he was five years old, he passed away. That kind of pain is, to say it again, indescribable. That kind of loss knocks the breath out of you. I don't have any platitudes, and I don't have any words to make it less awful. It is something that stays with you forever, but I also think that it reshapes your heart to be more compassionate and attuned to other hurting people. The healing from that was a long process, and in many ways is still happening. But I will say this. His story reached more people than we ever thought possible. I know countless people were impacted by the story, his strength, and the Lord's faithfulness through it all. That is a very, very summarized version of the story that completely changed me and my family. It is a huge part of me and my own personal story. It was and is the hardest thing I have ever experienced. But let me tell you, even in the most broken and horrible things, some beautiful things can grow. That experience is what first moved me to want to be a nurse. It taught me about brokenness and healing. All of us have wounds, all of us have broken parts. But those wounds push us towards the Father and one another. They make room for vulnerability and growth. They make us love bigger. It opened my eyes to the incredible impact that health care professionals can have on their patients. Nurses, doctors, PT, OT, whoever. We have the opportunity to make a difference. I will never forget the compassion, hard work, and love that was shown to us in the hospital. We meet people often times in the scariest times of their lives. Let's never run out of compassion. It taught me to be compassionate. Everyone, everyone, around us has a story. Let's be gentle to one another. Let's hurt with those who are hurting. Let's listen more. Let's share our stories and give room for vulnerability. Let's be present for each other. And to you who has known loss and brokenness: There is a Healer, and He sees your heart. Every tear matters to Him. He is faithful and steadfast. That brokenness may be a part of your story, but it is not your identity. You are loved more than you know, and worth more than you know.
11 Comments
Joy
8/8/2018 06:12:35 am
Thank you for sharing this very personal and devastating experience. You definitely are a gifted writer. You will touch so many lives out of your personal pain. Nothing makes it easier but knowing you can now move forward to make someone else’s pain more bearable is a precious gift. I love all of you Caldwells so so much!!! 💚💛❤️
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Dad
8/13/2018 05:35:48 pm
Love you
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Erin Smithhart
8/13/2018 06:19:05 pm
Tears are streaming down my face as I type this. I met your mom and younger siblings the summer of 2013, only months afterwards. She is one of the strongest, godly, and most encouraging women that I know.
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Markietha Swinney
8/13/2018 06:21:49 pm
You are going to make an awesome nurse! This story brought me to tears, again.
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Claire Pruitt
8/13/2018 09:48:36 pm
Your patients will be so blessed that you allowed yourself to learn perhaps the greatest lesson never taught in school. Thank you for sharing the beauty in this story. Connor’s legacy will live on as you practice nursing.
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Gidget Lentz
8/13/2018 10:29:52 pm
What a beautiful piece of writing. Transparency, emotion and so beautifully put. May the Lord continue to bless you and your patients who will be so lucky to have tou
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8/14/2018 04:56:54 am
Your words show such depth and heartbreak but not despair. I keep thinking "ALL things work together for good to those who are called according to His purpose." Never would I wish that pain on any family but if we keep turning to God and do not become bitter, He will use it for good in our lives and for others.
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Pam Marsee
8/14/2018 07:03:53 am
Beautifully written, Courtney. I appreciate you sharing your story. That tragic time in your life gave you (and still gives you) inspiration to shower others with compassion. Your job will never be just a "job" because of it!
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Elizabeth Traylor
8/14/2018 07:17:28 am
I had not been intimintly associated with your family during conners illness I was kept informed by my daughter-in-law The strength of you and your family has impressed me and encouraged me as I hear if other stories similar to yours it is a testament to our great God and your families reliance on Him I pray for your family daily and pray especially for your nursing career My you be a light shining in the darkness to others
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Amanda Cantrell
8/14/2018 12:56:13 pm
Courtney, you are such a Godly woman of strength and grace, and your patients are going to be so lucky to have you as their nurse. I remember watching your family go through this horrible tragedy, and I love seeing how God is using yalls pain for his glory, still. The fact that we will see Connor again is the only thing that covers the unfairness of it all . love~
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Michelle Forsythe
8/14/2018 04:38:59 pm
Courtney, I am so proud of you for transforming your pain and sorrow into a ministry of compassion! You are such a remarkable young woman.
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