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Would She Die Without Me?

My newborn's survival was out of my hands

by Grace Fox

Congratulations! You have a girl," announced our midwife, Margaret Brass, after my Caesarean section on Tuesday morning, March 19, 1985. But instead of allowing my husband, Gene, or me to hold the baby, she and a pediatrician whisked her to an examination table across the operating room.

From where I lay, I caught a glimpse of the baby's head. Something's wrong, I thought. Her head is huge!

The surgeon began stitching my incision, tugging and jerking the thread. No one spoke.

It must be bad! Why doesn't someone tell us what's going on? I wondered.

"I can't handle this!" I cried in pain. "Put me out!" Within seconds, the anesthesia put me to sleep.

I awoke an hour later. Gene stroked my cheek. "We're going back to the States," he said. "We're leaving Kathmandu as soon as possible."

"Why?" I asked, trying to understand his words as my mind cleared.

"The baby has massive hydrocephalus—excess water on the brain," he explained. "She needs a shunt in her head to drain the fluid, reducing the risk of brain damage."

The situation was serious. Our location complicated matters. We lived in Nepal, one of the world's poorest countries. Neurosurgery was impossible without modern medical technology. Returning to the United States was our only option. We lived 12 hours from Kathmandu's international airport. The winding mountain roads made travel difficult.

We'd worked for the United Mission to Nepal (UMN) since 1982. Gene, a civil engineer, was involved with a hydroelectric power project. I taught basic health care and literacy. Our blue-eyed, blonde 20-month-old toddler Matthew entertained the Hindu villagers. We'd committed our lives to serving these people whom we'd grown to love. Now this.

Whenever I prayed for a healthy child, I felt as though someone put a finger across my lips, shushing my request. I'd experienced none of this during my first pregnancy. I told Margaret, but with no machines our baby couldn't be checked.

One afternoon four months earlier, Gene and I had met a woman plodding up a steep path, carrying her unconscious five-year-old son. His head seemed much too large for his limp body.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked.

Her eyes filled with tears. "The doctors in America (referring to the UMN hospital about two hours away) can't help him. I'm taking him home to die," she said.

At my next pre-natal checkup, I described the child's appearance to Margaret. "He probably had hydrocephalus," she said. "It requires neurosurgery to insert a shunt into the head to drain the fluid into the abdominal cavity. Can't be done here with our limited facilities."

Three months before Stephanie's birth, Gene was asked by the economic development board to consider directing the Tansen hospital reconstruction project. If he accepted, we would have to move from our remote village to Tansen.

In the early months of village life, we would gladly have abandoned our mud-and-rock, grass-thatched house to live in a brick home with glass windows, electricity, and running water. Not now. Our hearts had bonded with our villagers.

"No thanks," Gene said.

"Please reconsider," was the reply.

We did. "No thanks," Gene said.

An urgent message arrived a few days later: "We need you in Tansen. Please come."

We reluctantly left our village, moving to a house next door to the mission hospital. We now had access to phone lines and medical help.

On March 17, Gene's mom, Betty Fox, arrived to lend a hand with the new grandchild. For two years, she had tried visiting us. Each time she made plans, circumstances prevented her from coming. This time her arrangements were trouble-free.

I remembered a conversation while waiting for Grandma Fox. "What will we do if this baby has special needs?" I asked Gene.

"Love him or her all the more," he quietly replied.

Sleep was impossible. In my hospital room were three Nepali women, one of whom cried in pain from burns suffered when her sari caught fire as she cooked over an open flame. A bare light bulb shone all night—the women and family members at their bedsides were frightened by evil spirits in the dark.

Wednesday morning, friends carried me on a stretcher to our house. I rested on our bed, watching Gene sort and pack our belongings. Morphine lessened my physical pain but nothing numbed my thoughts.

What will happen to Stephanie? Where will we live? What about a job for Gene?

Gene sat down beside me. "I have some bad news," he said. "There are two flights leaving Kathmandu in the next week. The first flight has only two empty seats left. The airline won't allow you to travel because you've just had surgery."

"You've got to be kidding!" I cried. "They can't do that—Stephanie needs help! How will we get her home?"

"I'm taking her," he said softly. "You'll travel with Mom and Matthew six days from now."

"You can't take her without me," I gasped. "I'm nursing her!" Tears spilled down my cheeks. I wanted to yell, "Fix it!" but the strain on Gene's face made me hold back. In the midst of great difficulty, he was doing his best to get our family through this.

"It's the only way," he whispered, taking me in his arms. "God's in control. We can trust him."

My head told me he was right. My feelings disagreed.

Eight months earlier Matthew had almost died from a mysterious virus. For a week we watched and prayed as his little body fought back. I'd hurled angry words at God then. "We've given up so much for you! Serving you isn't worth it!"

His response was gentle. "I gave up my Son because I love you. Please trust me in this."

I thought I'd learned the lesson well. I was wrong. My heart screamed while circumstances dragged me into the dark unknown. Not again, Lord! This time you've gone too far!

Oblivious to the seriousness of the situation, Matt squealed with delight when buses rumbled by. His innocent joy broke the silence, easing the tension. After 12 hours of twists, turns, and potholes, we were greeted by the UMN guesthouse hostess.

"You need a passport picture for the baby," she said. "A photo studio is staying open for you."

Gene and Margaret climbed back into the Land Rover with Stephanie, disappearing into the night.

"We'll help you to your room," the hostess said. Coworkers supported me as we climbed the stairs. I collapsed on the bed, exhausted.

Margaret slept in our room, getting up periodically to help me feed Stephanie and check her condition. "I'm uneasy about her heart," she said. "Something doesn't sound right."

In the morning Gene raced to the embassy to process the passport. An American doctor whisked Stephanie to the city's UMN hospital. After inserting a needle through her skull into her brain, he withdrew 40 cc of cerebral fluid to reduce the pressure. The three arrived less than an hour before the flight's departure.

I had only a few precious moments to hold my daughter. I may never see her again. What if she dies before I get home? I thought. Memorize her face—her tiny mouth, her little nose.

Gene stuffed an overnight bag with diapers and a change of clothes. He glanced at his watch.

"Let's pray," said Margaret. "Heavenly Father, you are trustworthy even when we don't understand what you're doing. We have nothing to fear. Protect Stephanie on the trip and reunite the family soon. In Jesus' name, Amen."

Gene kissed me and wrapped Stephanie in a blanket. "I'll call you from the States," he said. Then he was gone.

What now? What will life be like for Stephanie if she lives? O, God, what are you doing?

As if in response to my questions, a melody came from nowhere, filling my mind with familiar words:

Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father, there is no shadow of turning with thee; Thou changest not, thy compassions, they fail not; As Thou hast been Thou forever wilt be.

I whispered the chorus through broken sobs.

Great is Thy faithfulness! Great is Thy faithfulness! Morning by morning new mercies I see; All I have needed Thy hand hath provided—Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!

The words hushed my fear. Would I see Stephanie alive again? I didn't know. But grim circumstances could not change the fact—God was faithful. I could trust him no matter what.

Surrounding Stephanie with pillows on the bed, Gene dashed outside to find a grocery store. To his amazement and relief, he found a convenience store five blocks away.

That night, lying on the bed beside Stephanie, Gene fought to stay awake. He watched her chest rise and fall. She's so quiet, he thought. What if she dies during the night?

Choosing not to succumb to his fears, he focused on a different thought: Not too many dads have the opportunity to do this with their newborns. This may be the only time we travel halfway around the world together.

Saturday morning enroute to Seattle, Stephanie refused to suck from the bottle. Gene fed her with a syringe, hiding her in her blanket to avoid questions. One passenger alerted a flight attendant that "a kid was shooting up in the back." When she went to investigate, the flight attendant discovered an exhausted, unshaven young father feeding his four-day-old daughter. Apprised of the situation, the attendant immediately found a doctor on board to check Stephanie's condition.

Neurosurgery the following day eased pressure on her brain, but doctors discovered a hole in her heart.

When I arrived five days later, a pediatric cardiologist's prognosis wasn't optimistic: "If Stephanie lives to be two years old, we can try to repair the defect. That, however, is unlikely. She'll probably die of congestive heart failure within a month."

God had other plans. Two months later, Stephanie underwent tests for her heart. The same doctor looked at the results and x-rays.

"I don't understand this," he said, shaking his head. "Her heart is normal."

We understood. Hundreds of people had been praying.

This past March, Stephanie celebrated her sixteenth birthday. She still needs the shunt, but she's an overcomer. She knows God has a special plan for her life—she has survived a heart defect, meningitis, and 10 surgeries so far, only two relating to the shunt. Among the surgeries have been two eye operations, a double hernia repair, and the removal of a cyst from her brain.

Despite the setbacks, she's an A student on the honor roll in her junior year of high school. She plays piano, saxophone, and flute. Like other teenagers, she can't wait to get her driver's license.

Stephanie's life has taught me what it means to implicitly trust God. It's easy to do when life rolls along smoothly. It's not as simple when the tough times hit.

When my third pregnancy was plagued with a kidney stone, I rested in his faithfulness. When my dad suffered two crippling strokes, I experienced his trustworthiness. When finances were stretched tight, I saw him provide.

I don't have to understand his ways to trust him. He's trustworthy simply because he loves me. He's trustworthy because he's faithful.

Editor's note: In 1996, the Fox family stepped out in faith again, sensing God's direction to join the Christian ministry of Camp Homewood on Quadra Island, British Columbia. Gene is program director, and Grace heads up the crafts as well as helps with general housekeeping, i.e. scrubbing toilets. For information on Camp Homewood, visit its website at www.homewood.bc.ca.

A Christian Reader original article.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today International/Today's Christian magazine (formerly Christian Reader).
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