Sinking into the warmth of the bath, I felt the sting of water against my raw hands, a reminder of the relentless scrubbing with antiseptic solution from the dispensers lining the hospital corridors. I had pressed the thin metal bar at the entrance to my daughter’s room countless times, each touch a desperate plea for security during our six-day ordeal. My 18-month-old daughter was connected to an IV, slowly healing from a virus she caught while we were at the hospital for what was supposed to be a routine MRI—a simple scan to check for a brain tumor after we noticed a slight misalignment in her eyes.
“Routine, routine, routine,” I kept telling myself in the days leading up to the appointment, but the combination of “brain” and “tumor” felt anything but routine for my mind and heart.
That night, my husband stayed by her side while I took the train back to our apartment in Berlin for just one night away. I needed to recharge, to soak in a bath, sleep in my own bed, and reflect on these past few days. An early heatwave had set in, almost as if the seasons had shifted while we were suspended in time. For five nights, I had watched my daughter from behind the bars of a crib that reminded me we were in an outdated East German hospital. The sterile room, the linoleum floors, and the cold furniture created an unforgiving atmosphere.
Stepping outside the Kinderklinik, the hospital grounds felt like a portal to another era. The manicured gardens and classic architecture, established in 1710 under King Frederick I of Prussia in anticipation of the bubonic plague, seemed almost surreal as I grappled with feelings of dislocation.
We were placed in the pediatric neurology ward, populated by parents and children enduring severe and debilitating conditions—some on feeding tubes, others recovering from surgeries. My daughter appeared so vibrant, so out of place among them. I vividly recall the neurosurgeon’s surprise upon seeing her walk; he hadn’t expected it.
Initially, I assumed our visit was merely a formality. The doctors would give her a quick “All clear” or “Alles gut,” and we would return to our lives unscathed. I even envisioned a future where we would shop for a cute eye patch, perhaps in pink with an elephant design. As a mother, I fretted over potential vision problems, the challenges of adjusting to an eye patch, but I firmly believed we would soon resume our normal lives.
When my daughter didn’t wake up from the anesthesia, I felt a chill. She was supposed to awaken within hours, and we were meant to go home. After a few hours, when the doctors decided to keep her overnight for monitoring, she woke briefly, confused and sick. The following day, she remained lethargic and vomited repeatedly, leading to an IV drip and the need for us to wait. I remember racing through the hospital with her limp, feverish body, crying out for help, frustrated at my inability to communicate in German and express my fear.
The doctors investigated potential causes, testing for stomach cancer, lymphoma, and lung cancer. They searched for tumors but eventually concluded it was merely a severe virus. I thought, “I can handle this,” but all I wanted was for her to recover so we could return to our normal lives.
Initially, the MRI results were clear, but on the third day, the neurologist entered with a grave demeanor. “We found an abnormality,” he said, and despite my attempts to comprehend the medical jargon, all I understood was, “Something is wrong with my daughter.” Moments later, we were shown an MRI image indicating her brain casing might be compressing her spinal cord. They spoke of the possible symptoms she might face and treatment options, including surgery or a stent. None of it seemed real; it felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.
I had always believed that making the right choices would lead to a life of certainty and security, and now, everything felt shaken. I had spent so long trying to avoid pain, planning and strategizing to minimize discomfort. But now, I found myself confronting a reality I never thought I would face—being a mother to a sick child.
In that unit, I was surrounded by parents who, like me, were navigating the uncertainty of their children’s health. I admired their strength and resilience as they faced unimaginable challenges. We all shared the same exhaustion, fueled by endless cups of coffee, pondering the cafeteria food choices, and wondering if it was odd to order pizza delivery to a hospital. We were all just trying to survive each moment.
What I learned is that the situations we think we cannot endure often teach us about our own strength. I found comfort in the shared experience of vulnerability. I no longer sought a perfect life; instead, I embraced the reality of love and resilience that surrounded me. Even in the darkest moments, I felt capable and strong.
This experience won’t be the last time I confront fear or loss. In those quiet moments away from the hospital, I will reflect on the life I imagined and the challenges that lie ahead. I will notice the beauty in the world—the cherry blossoms, the clouds, the warmth of the sun—and remember that we are all connected in our humanity. I will return to my daughter with an open heart, ready to love her fiercely, no matter the circumstances.
For those navigating similar journeys, there are resources available. Check out this excellent source on pregnancy and home insemination from Healthline, or explore how to boost fertility with our artificial insemination kit at Make A Mom. You can also read more about family dynamics and health on Modern Family Blog.
Summary
In this reflective piece, a mother shares her harrowing week in the pediatric neurology unit with her young daughter. As they navigate the challenges of potential health issues, the author discovers profound lessons about vulnerability, strength, and the resilience of the human spirit. Through her experiences, she learns to appreciate the connections formed in adversity and the importance of love in the face of uncertainty.