HELL WEEK
THIS IS A true story. The names of people and universities have been changed to protect the innocent… and the guilty.
In August of 1994 PJ Richardson felt like vomiting. It was the second practice of the day in full pads.  They had done thousands of up-downs, they had run countless wind sprints, and had spent hours in full contact drills in the austere Inland Empire sun. The summer workouts had not fully prepared the freshman football team for what the coaches called “Hell Week.”  “Hell Week” physically battered the pimpled-faced boys causing many to spew on the green and brown practice field.

TWELVE YEARS and eight months later PJ’s real Hell week would begin with his first-born son, Hank, spewing in his face.
Hank was less than one month old and had been projectile vomiting for about a week. The doctor and nurses had called it a virus that should disappear in a few days when PJ’s wife, Kiki Leseur Richardson, took Hank in on that warm spring day. “As long as the baby doesn’t lose too much weight he should be fine,” the nurse assured Kiki. That was on Monday.  
It was already Thursday and Hank was still hurling a white mass of liquid across the room a few minutes after every feeding. PJ cradled Hank in his arms gazing at the infant’s beautiful hazel eyes when the child unleashed the violent eruption of breast milk mixed with stomach acid drenched P J’s face and shirt. He would have to shower (again) and change clothes before going off to Utah valley State University for a Modern British History class and then off to his job as a tutor.
Hours later PJ sat at a computer playing checkers over the Internet waiting for someone to tutor when his cell phone rang. The caller ID said Kiki Richardson. “Hello,” he answered.
“Hi, PJ. Can you get off work early today?” Kiki asked somberly.
“I guess so. What’s wrong?”
“I talked to a nurse on the phone again today. She said Hank might have something that nobody in Utah Valley is qualified to handle. We need to take him to Salt Lake to Primary Children’s Hospital. He might need surgery. I’ll come and pick you up now, OK?”
PJ was stunned silent for a moment before he was able to force out a response, “OK.”
“Love you. See you soon.”
“Love you too.”
PJ was stunned, worried, and scared. There were so few details. People do not likes to hear about the possibility that their newborn may need a surgery. Added to the dread for the health of Hank was his own worries over his senior thesis. He had to defend it the next day. PJ knew there was a good chance he would not sleep well that night.
    After fifteen minutes that seemed long enough to watch The Lord of the Rings Trilogy Kiki arrived with Hank. The young family drove the thirty or so miles as the nervous husband peppered his sweet wife with questions. The young mother didn’t know most of the answers.

AT PRIMARY Children’s Hospital the nurse took Hank’s blood pressure and he puked.  Other workers drew blood and he hurled some more. When the doctor was able to see the infant he made Hank drink a chalky banana flavored drink, Hank speedily downed it, and then the doctor x-rayed Hanks stomach. Hank promptly vomited all over the expensive equipment.
The doctor gave the diagnosis: pyloric stenosis, a condition commonly associated with Jewish ancestry and is more common in Caucasians than in minorities. It would require surgery the next day. Until that time Hank could not eat. They had to completely empty his stomach and give him an IV. As one of PJ’s brothers put it, “When are you going to get one of those new fangled wireless babies?”
That night he spoke with his mom and siblings about what was happening with the child. PJ could barely speak and now it was him who had to take the barrage of questions that he knew few answers to. His mom suggested that Hank, Kiki, and PJ get a blessing  from a relative of theirs. She called Richard Harriett, PJ’s cousin who lived near the children’s hospital.
Richard arrived and after we had exchanged brief pleasantries we proceeded to perform the Latter Day Saint blessing ritual—a ritual that before PJ’s father’s death, he had performed on PJ when he was a toddler. PJ had mistaken blood pressure pills as candy. After that blessing some twenty–five years earlier PJ’s blood pressure had risen from practically nonexistent to normal. But that is a tangent. PJ and Richard gave a blessing to Hank. The blessing promised Hank that the surgery would go well.
Richard proceeded to give a blessing to Kiki and PJ. The little family was comforted during their stressful moment. After Richard left PJ and Kiki were able to sleep relatively comfortably in a small pullout bed barely large enough for a ten-year-old boy. The couple slept intertwined throughout the night. Hank woke them up a few times with cries for milk. All the couple could do was dip Hank’s pacifier in a sugary solution to try to trick him into thinking he was being fed. It worked—most of the time.

THE NEXT morning PJ and Kiki hoped the surgery would be early to enable PJ to be there for the surgery before he had to catch a bus to defend his thesis back at UVSU. The surgery came too late and PJ would miss the doctors cutting open his newborn son.
PJ had to defend his thesis before Dr Lynnore Bennoir, Dr. Kurt Spine, and Dr. Ricky Salmon.
    To PJ’s great surprise the committee wanted to speak to each other for a moment before having PJ come into the great hall. While PJ sat outside the room where three people would decide his fate, he pulled his iPod from his pocket and began to listen to music that typically calmed him. He started with the music his father had introduced him to—the Romantic composer Bedrich Smetena. After the thirteen calming minutes of “the Moldau” he listened to the sublime music of Café Tacuba.
    Dr. Salmon came out and invited PJ into the room. He said, “Our discussion really just saved you a lot of time.”
    Dr. Bennoir bluntly stated, “We feel your thesis was not ready to defend.”
    The body blow sent PJ reeling. PJ sat there in a stupor as they told him that he would receive an E in the class. He was to rewrite his paper focusing on the third of the paper that had had the least written about it—the part on literature that spewed forth out of Connecticut when the English started taxing their colonies. He heard the new thesis would be fascinating because almost nobody had touched the subject. At that point the shock overwhelmed him and he lost all contact with the world surrounding him. He sat there saying, “I understand” or “OK” while thinking that the room was devouring his soul.
    When the room finally hurled him out PJ felt like a complete failure. He was also angry. He wanted to ask so many questions he couldn’t think of in front of the committee. “Isn’t this something you could have told me before I abandoned my son in his time of need? You had my contact info, right? I’ve emailed all three of you before, right? Also, my number and email address are listed in UVSU’s directory, right? If you wanted to write about just that one subject you could have told me before my final draft was due, right? Is that too much to ask?”
    
PJ RETURNED to Primary Children’s Hospital where he found his wife and child in their hospital room.  The surgery had been a success.  As soon as Hank could drink a certain amount of milk without vomiting he could leave. Sunday afternoon they headed back home.

HOWEVER, THE TRIPS to the hospital were not to end there. Monday night after Hank was sleeping Kiki screamed. The woman had gone through labor with all of the pain and discomfort that accompanies it. Yet she never remembered pain as excruciating like she felt at that moment. When PJ heard the scream he got up and started to head towards Kiki.
    She called for her husband. “PJ, come quick.”
    “I’m coming.” He sprinted to her side and helped her get into the bathtub.
    PJ started the same ritual he had performed with Richard Harriett—the same ritual that five generations of Richardsons had often performed for sick loved ones. He placed his hands on Kiki’s head and blessed her so that the pain would be manageable and  she would recover. At that instance the intense pain dissipated. Over the next few days the pain would return but it was never as intense as it had been that first day.
    Kiki went to see the doctor on Tuesday and had an appointment for surgery on Wednesday. She had to have her gallbladder removed. The surgery went well and PJ was fond of saying, “I love your guts but I still love you without your guts.”

APRIL 4, 2007 to April 10, 2007 was more hellish than a week of two-a-days run by a retired Marine. Two-a-days left PJ physically exhausted. The two loved ones’ pains, sufferings, and surgery exhausted him emotionally more than the toughest football regime could have physically destroyed him. The feelings of complete inadequacy and failure stemming from the unacceptable grade that delayed graduation was far worse than any workout induced vomit.
    Yet, within the “Emotional Hell Week” there were glimpses of Heaven—enough to even call the week a marriage of Heaven and Hell. There were people who showed they cared for PJ, Kiki, and Hank. PJ’s twelve-year-old nephew expressed his relief that Hank was OK and told PJ, “I’ve been praying for him.” Kiki’s mom flew to Utah from Minnesota to help out. PJ’s brothers brought the young family the closest thing to Petrillos pizza (PJ’s dad’s favorite pizza as a kid) that Utah had while they were in the hospital. Even complete strangers had offered prayers for Hank and Kiki. The compassion and kindness of friends, family and strangers helped the young family to catch miniscule views of divinity during their hell week.