Chapter 3 - Brian
AS I STAND NEXT TO Abby’s hospital bed, all I can think is, if I knew thirteen years ago what I know now, I’d have done everything differently with her birth parents. I was thirty-three years old when Chris and Claire Knight came to us asking to change the closed adoption into an open adoption. I wasn’t young, but I was foolish. Foolish to think Abby would never need them. Foolish to think we would never need them.
Lynette stands next to me, gently stroking the back of Abby’s hand with her thumb, the way she has every day for the past seventeen days since Abby collapsed during that soccer game. It wasn’t the first time my little girl had passed out from overexertion. Abigail was born with an AV (atrioventricular) canal defect: a gaping hole in her heart.
After the surgery she underwent at the age of five months, her recovery seemed to be going well. Then, we noticed four-year-old Abby struggling to breathe while chasing Harley, our Jack Russell terrier, around the yard. Sure enough, we took her to the doctor and they discovered one of the valves in her heart had begun to weaken and her body wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Abby had one more surgery to reshape the leaflet, during which she was technically dead for three minutes and twenty-four seconds. We vowed to do everything we could to prevent her from ever needing surgery again.
Unfortunately, this means Abby has been forced to take various medications for years. We knew this came with a risk of injury to her liver and kidneys. We didn’t know—we couldn’t know—when she switched medications four weeks ago that she’s genetically predisposed to liver toxicity due to the way her body synthesized the new drug. This time, it wasn’t the stress on her heart that made her collapse. Cardiac arrest was secondary to the most pressing issue: liver failure.
But as I watch her lying in the hospital bed, lost in the haze of sedation with a tube buried in her throat, I almost wish it were her heart. At least then I’d know that there’s some kind of surgery that could fix her.
There is no surgery that can fix Abby’s liver. They attempted to reverse the toxicity with corticosteroids, but she’s only gotten worse. If she doesn’t get a new liver, she could be dead in days. Her best chance at survival, due to her heart condition, is to find a genetic liver donor.
I squeeze Lynette’s shoulder and she sniffs loudly. “We have to contact them. We have to at least try,” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “What will she think of us when she knows we lied to her?”
“She won’t think anything of us if she dies.”
“Stop that,” she whispers, her voice strangled by the truth of these words.
“It’s true. We need them whether we like it or not, and… she needs more from them than a piece of their liver.”
Just saying these words aloud fills me with a level of regret so heavy and palpable I feel as if I might collapse from the realization. I grit my teeth and attempt to swallow the lump that forms in my throat. I’m no longer the one person my little girl needs more than anyone.
Reaching forward, I pull a few strands of hair away from the tape holding Abby’s breathing tube in place. I want her to look her best for the photograph I’m about to take, quite possibly the most important photograph of her life. And she’ll be sleeping right through it. The moment I touch her warm cheek, her head twitches and Lynette pulls my hand back. She doesn’t want me to touch Abby’s face. She thinks it introduces germs into her nose and mouth and she’s afraid of what will happen if they have to give Abby antibiotics.
“I thought we wouldn’t have to tell her until she’s eighteen. I just don’t think I’m ready,” Lynette whispers as she reaches for the camera, which rests on the chair beside her. She holds the camera out for me to take, but she doesn’t let go when I attempt to grab it. “Wait. Let me fix her hair.”
I can hardly breathe as I watch Lynette smooth down Abby’s blonde hair. As similar as Abby’s hair color is to Lynette’s, she doesn’t really resemble either one of us. She has brown eyes while Lynette’s and mine are blue. She noticed this a few years ago and when she inquired about it, Lynette’s response was “Because you got all our best traits. That’s why you’re so much prettier than us.”
You don’t have to share DNA with your child to know when they’re suffering. Whether Lynette admits it to herself or me, the truth is that Abby knows she’s different. I read about adopted children who grow up feeling unwanted even when their adoptive parents make every effort to show them they are loved. This is one of the main reasons why I was so adamant about not allowing Chris and Claire Knight to have any contact with Abby after her first birthday. I knew that if there were a chance that Abby ever felt unwanted or unloved, she would go running to them. Now, I just want her to feel normal. If meeting them is what will save her life and give her back the sense that she is loved, I’ll do anything to give her that.
Lynette wipes tears from her face as she steps away from Abby and I take a step back to get a wider angle of the hospital bed. The lighting in this critical-care room is terrible. This isn’t something I ever imagined I would care about in the countless days we’ve spent in hospital rooms.
I take a few shots, feeling sick with myself as I walk around the bed to see which angle makes her look best. Every year, a few days before Christmas, we drop a memory card containing pictures of Abby into a joint safe-deposit box in Raleigh. The Knights also leave a memory card with pictures of themselves, and I can only assume it’s because they haven’t given up hope that we’ll introduce Abby to them. This is the first year we’ll be handing them the pictures in person as we beg them to save our girl.
Finally, I have to stop taking photos when I realize I’m about to lose my composure. Turning away from the hospital bed, I silently ask Abby’s forgiveness for photographing her while she’s in this state. She hates taking pictures, especially Christmas pictures, unless she’s had time to fix her hair and put on a nice outfit. The things thirteen-year-old girls worry about baffle me. I often wonder if she inherited this and all the traits I love so much about her from the Knights.
I turn around and Lynette is holding Abby’s hand again. “She’s lucky we adopted her,” she says. This time her voice is a bit louder than a whisper, as if she’s trying to convince me—or herself. “She probably wouldn’t have survived this long. She’s lucky to have us.”
“She needs to see those pictures,” I insist, but Lynette doesn’t look up or acknowledge my words.
Suddenly, Abby’s head jerks a bit harder and her fingers begin to move. My heart races as I rush to her side. Her eyes are still closed as tears begin to slide down her temples.
“What’s wrong?” I ask instinctively.
A soft whimper sounds in her throat where the breathing tube prevents her from speaking. She shakes her head, her eyes still closed as the tears come faster.
“Call the doctor!” I shout at Lynette, who is dumbfounded. Abby has been in a coma for seventeen days.
Abby’s cries become more high-pitched as she struggles to be heard through the tube. “Don’t try to speak, honey. The doctor’s coming. Just stay calm. Are you in pain?”
She shakes her head even more adamantly and finally she opens her eyes wide.
“Don’t be afraid,” I whisper as I reach for her hand, but she slaps my fingers away. “Abby, what’s wrong?” She reaches for the tape holding her breathing tube and I grab her hand to stop her. “Don’t do that.” She leans her head back and her muffled cries cease as she closes her eyes. “Honey, are you okay?”
She squeezes her eyes tightly shut and now it looks as if she’s in extreme pain. The nurse rushes in and I lock eyes with her. “I think she’s in pain.”
Abby’s cries begin again and she continues to shake her head. She wants us to know she is not in pain.
The nurse is confused. “Then what’s wrong, dear? Is it the tube in your throat? Because we can’t take that out. We’ll have to wait for the doctor to get here. He’s been paged. Can you wait a few more minutes?”
Lynette wears a guarded smile as she rounds the foot of the bed and reaches for me. She didn’t see what I just saw.
Abby’s cries grow stronger and the nurse appears worried. “You want a piece of paper to write something down?”
Finally, Abby nods and the nurse quickly leaves the room to retrieve a pen and paper, but Lynette beats her to it. She takes her phone out of her purse, opens up the notes app, and hands it to Abby. As she takes the phone from Lynette, she seems to be refusing to look at her. Her hand shakes as she types a few words then lets the phone drop onto her blanket.
The words on the screen break my heart into a million pieces: I want to see the pictures.