The Wait

The wait—4 1/2 hours of uncertainty about Samson’s outcome in surgery. I immediately called my siblings and Samson’s youth pastor, David, asking for them to come up to the hospital with us. In a private room, Tom, my siblings, David, his wife Carly, and I shared the agonizing wait. We had reached out to our pastor, and asked the church start to pray for Samson, and a full recovery. The hours dragged on but hope lingered. I still envisioned leaving with my son within a month.

We prayed together, reached out to family and friends, and clung to hope. Around the third hour, encouraged by the support and information from nurses, I remarked, “What a story my boy is going to have. He’ll talk about how God healed him, proudly displaying a gnarly scar.” Samson always embraced scars, like the one on his arm from a skateboarding mishap in his youth.

After enduring hours of tears, prayers, and pacing, the neurosurgeon entered the room. She had a smile, and I said, "You must have good news if you have a smile on your face." My heart sank as she clarified, “I’m a smiler by nature.” She revealed she was a surgeon for adults and hadn’t realized Samson’s age. They had assumed he was an adult because of his size. ( He was 5' 11" 165lbs, which he was very proud of, he had worked hard to put on weight this summer and had a size 13 shoe.) "The surgery went well; we removed the left side of his skull to address swelling. As you heard, he had bleeding on the left side, requiring vigilant care to prevent it from affecting the right."

As she explained the recovery process—days intubated, weeks in ICU—I struggled to comprehend anything that was being said. My mind was in a state of fog. Desperate for answers, I asked about Samson’s state and if anything would be impacted by this. Would he be able to walk, talk, remember us, after all of this? She assured me that if the swelling reduced, he should remember us and recover his normal self.

The conversation took an unexpected turn when she explained that due to Samson being a minor, they needed to move him to the children’s side of the hospital. "As a mother myself, these are the kind of conversations we don't like having with parents. I'm so sorry you're all going through this. A nurse will come to escort you all to the children's side shortly." Eager to see Samson, and hold onto him, I inquired about when I would be able to be with him. She reassured me they were preparing him post-surgery, and I could see him shortly on the children’s side.

Amidst my tears, she asked if I was a hugger, and I gratefully accepted. Despite Samson not coming home with us, I remain thankful for her efforts to save him, especially considering the complexities of dealing with a minor in such a critical condition.

Within minutes, a nurse came and escorted us to the children’s side. Waiting outside the PICU doors felt like an eternity, knowing my baby boy was just feet away. Even if he was sedated and not awake, I needed to be next to him, to hold onto him, and see my baby.

A doctor emerged and requested a private conversation with his father and I before others joined. It had only been about 10-15 minutes since we left the neurosurgeon. We followed this new doctor back, and as I entered the room, I saw Samson. I clung to him and sobbed, uttering words of love and desperation. Completely sedated, intubated, and with his head wrapped in a bandage, it was agonizing to witness him in this state. He didn't look like my Samson connected to all of the tubes, the 7 types of medication being pumped into his body through a pick line in his chest. It looked like Samson, but not, at the same time. It's something that's difficult to explain.  

The doctor sat us down on the room’s couch and delivered devastating news. “Your son is likely not going to make it.” The words shattered my heart, igniting anger. “What?” I yelled in disbelief. “How? I just talked to the surgeon; this isn’t what she told me. How can everything change within minutes? Why did she give me hope, and now you’re saying my son isn’t going to make it? No, no, no, no, no!!!” I rushed back to Samson, clinging to him and pleading with him not to leave. “No, Samson! It’s Mom. I’m here. I need you. You kept me alive, Samson. You’re my purpose for living, baby. Listen to me! I need you to listen to me. NO NO NO! No Samson! I’m not going to lose you! I CAN'T LOSE YOU!" My cries turned into loud weeping, echoing the desperate plea to keep my son with me.

I told the doctor, 'I need my family. I need everyone in here." Clinging to Samson, Tom came behind me, holding onto Samson and I, as our hearts broke for our son. My siblings entered, and I turned to them weeping, "He said Samson isn’t going to make it."

"What?!" My brother Jake exclaimed. "What?! How, no!" I immediately turned on worship music and began to pray, fervently begging God to turn this around, pleading for a miracle.

We all fell to the floor, trembling and weeping, grappling with the disbelief – how could this be happening to Samson? He, who is perfect in every way, a joy known for his smile and kindness towards others. With all the terrible people in this world, why my boy? Countless thoughts raced through my mind.

One of the things I’m thankful for, and I feel like was a blessing from God, to bring peace to my mind; Samson didn’t have a single broken bone. His body looked perfect. From chin up, he wasn’t Samson, but from the chin down, that was my perfect, beautiful, strong boy. His strong arms, his giant feet he hadn't yet grown into, his muscular legs.

I couldn’t stop saying, “My perfect boy, you’re so beautiful babe, you’re perfect.” Just holding his hand, laying on his chest, holding him like I did when he was my little boy, before he outgrew his mama. “Why not me?” I pleaded with God. “Take me! Why not me?! Please don't take my boy”

In a state of panic over my son, the anxiety heightened when I realized Samson's girlfriend, Olivia, was unaware. They usually spoke throughout the entire day. I urgently instructed my sister to reach out to her—she needed to know.

Young love is a tender, wonderful thing, and that's what they shared. She had been at our house almost every day for the past month. As soon as she texted me, I conveyed the urgency, telling her to come to the hospital immediately. Even typing this still brings tears to my eyes, witnessing her gaze at the young man she loved. Understanding that her heart was just as pained as mine.

We all gathered around Samson, sobbing, and whispering what we wanted to say into his ear, pleading for a miracle. Pleading for him to sit up, and just be Samson again. I remained by his side constantly, never leaving his bedside. Even when I had to use the restroom, panic set in at the thought of leaving him. I made sure either my brother or Tom held his hand, never wanting him to feel alone. Feeling like he was aware of his surroundings still. 

Seeing Olivia, my siblings, Tom, and then Samson’s brother, Gabe—my heart shattered further witnessing everyone in pain.

Our pastor and David, the youth pastor, kindly ordered food for the family, but we couldn’t eat. Sick to our stomachs, I felt like I couldn’t breathe, on the verge of a panic attack with a pounding head from the constant sobs. Collapsing into Tom and my brothers, throughout the day, I kept questioning, “How can this be real? My Samson, how?! How could this be?”

His brain pressure wasn’t decreasing; it was elevating. The doctors gave us a very bleak outlook from the beginning. My memory is foggy because I was so consumed with being next to my son, but I know for a fact they had said they were going to reduce his sedation level. They said they needed to see if he could start breathing on his own because that would determine how long they would essentially keep him on life support. If he couldn’t do it on his own, I would be forced to make a decision, and "We can only do this for so long." At one point, I was told we would have to make a call because if there is no brain activity, "We can’t just let machines keep your son alive. We need to talk about the value of life at that point."

When the doctor mentioned decreasing sedation several hours after we had gotten to see him, panic consumed me. “No, please, give him a fighting chance.” I just felt like his body wasn’t ready to wake up and do this on his own. I stayed up until 5:30 in the morning, just staring at his face. They had said that night that the pressure monitor (an object that looked like a small pole coming from the bandages his head was wrapped in) had stopped working. He needed to be brought down for a CAT scan. That was at 4:00, and I anxiously awaited for them to bring him back. He was back by 4:27 and I clung to him again. I laid next to him, and my body finally surrender to the exhaustion, after an hour of staring at his face, holding onto his hand and arm. Tom had to bring Gabe back home, but my brother Jake stayed with me. He held me many of those late night hours while we wept together. I wanted my boy. I wanted my Samson. I wanted to take him home and see him defy the odds, hold onto what the neurosurgeon had said.