Thaddeus remains comatose, unresponsive to all but the deepest, most painful, of stimuli.  When a doctor or nurse rubs his chest, he moves his arms and legs slightly and grimaces, but does't do much else.  A hopeful sign? Perhaps. 

As you know, my son was gravely injured in a fall last week while hiking with some friends.  He is only twelve years old; he doesn't deserve this!  He suffered massive injuries: to his head, kidneys, liver, lungs, legs and arms: numerous fractures, caastrophic head trauma, and God only knows what else.

I have been camped here at the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) waiting room, afraid to leave, lest something happen to my boy.  I don't want to be gone, only to find out he passed away or took a turn for the worse.  I don't think I could stand it if that happened ...

John has been here a few times to visit, but he hasn't stayed long enough.  My husband claims hospitals make him sick; he would rather bury himself with his work, and I don't blame him.  He has never handled crisis situations very well, especially since our second oldest child, Emma, ten, was born with special needs that left her in a wheelchair and unable to walk.

I just worry about Emma and our youngest son, Bryce, six.  I wonder if they are worried about their big brother as much as I am.  Probably so.  I just want to reach out to them and hug them, but as I said, I am not leaving the hospital until I know for sure that Thad is going to make it.

Easter was okay, but it would have been far better hadn't Thad gotten injured.  We could have gone to church for special Eastertime services or took the younger kids for an Easter egg hunt, or even gone out to eat at one of Nashville's fine eating places.  Nope.  My other two kids are staying with Grandma and Grandpa, my husband is thrwoing himself into his work, and I sit here, worrying and wondering what is going to come next.

Remember the little baby boy and girl I mentioned in my last entry?  Well, the girl survived; the boy did not.  He died yesterday morning.  He was only a little over two weeks old.  He died of necrotizing fasciitis, or flesh eating disease.  His parents are absolutely shattered.  So was I when I heard the news.  I was hoping the baby boy would make it, but it was not meant to be.  He is now with Jesus.

The girl, meanwhile, continues to fight with every ounce of her being.  She is only six months old, yet her future has already been marked: a future filled with doctors, nurses, medical care, and a life in darkness, silence, and total helplessness.  Her mother's boyfriend couldn't handle her crying, so he physically shook her, leaving her brain damaged for life.

Well, Dr. Toutenheimer wants to talk to me; he's the pediatric neurologist.  I hope it is good news; I have had more than enough bad news to last me for a long while!  Pray it is good news; I've already been through more than enough as it is now!  Thanks in advance for the prayers; I could really use them!!

~Rita.  :(

~To be continued.~