It was just supposed to be a routine procedure. Something millions of kids go through every decade. In an age of advanced medicine, having your tonsils removed should be easy peasy. And for the vast majority of those who get the surgery, adults and kids alike, it's no big deal. But that wasn’t the case for my 13-year-old son, Elijah. During his procedure, he caught COVID and some other infection, both of which unleashed serious complications during his recovery.
Elijah battled a fever, which we expected given the inflammation from having a chunk of your body lopped off. It started in the basic low hundreds. We treated it like any other fever. Motrin. It waffled up and down that first night, so we shrugged it off. But things soon spun out of control.
My son is autistic and suffers from hellacious anxiety, especially when it comes to taking medicine. It doesn’t matter if it’s pills or liquid. He’s terrified it will make him toss his cookies, which, apparently, is his ultimate nightmare. Saying we had a hard time giving him his medication for the fever would be the understatement of biblical proportions. The boy is stubborn. Defiant. If he doesn’t want to do something, no amount of arguing will convince him otherwise. Why not physically force him to take his meds, you might ask? Brother, try it and you’ll find yourself in the fight of your life. And I guarantee Elijah will go the distance and send you home with a fresh perspective on pain.
He takes that after his old man. Honestly, he takes almost all of that after me.
A few days pass. Elijah wakes up one morning with his eye swollen shut. The fever is atrociously high. My wife and I instantly realize we’ve hit Defcon 4. We’re out of our depth. My wife rushes my son to the nearest Children’s Hospital. It’s his third trip there in several days. I stay home because I’m self-employed, which means if I don’t work, we don’t eat. Hours crawl by without any updates on Elijah’s condition.
I finally call the hospital myself to check on him. They refuse to tell me anything, but they promise to relay a message to my wife to call me. Still, the receptionist accidentally drops a detail that makes my heart plummet. My son is in the intensive care unit. Fear strikes like lightning out of a cloudless sky. It hits hard, fast, and without mercy.
My wife and I finally connect on the phone. I ask what happened — why is our boy in the ICU? With her voice trembling, Amanda tells me Elijah’s fever spiked to 106 degrees, triggering a seizure. Thanks be to God, the staff at the hospital ranks among the best in the country. They act immediately, putting him into a coma. Preliminary testing reveals a massive infection behind his eye. Doctors fear it spread to his brain, so they put him in that coma to do an MRI and other tests to see what they’re dealing with.
I hang up the phone, shock and fear seizing every part of my body. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that my 13-year-old son might be knocking on death’s doorstep. All from getting his tonsils removed. How does that even happen? I shatter into a million pieces, hit the floor, and sob. Maybe more like wail. I’ve never cried like that in my life. I scream, cry, beg God to spare my son. If someone has to die, take me instead. After a few minutes, I arrange a ride to the hospital. When I arrive, Elijah is having the MRI. I’m in the process of converting to the Catholic Church at that time. I waste no time pulling out a prayer book and calling on Jesus and Mary to help and save my son. I pray the rosary too. Crying the whole time.
As I pray, I see a vision of the Blessed Mother — the Virgin Mary — not only Jesus’ mom, but every Christian’s. She holds me in her arms, comforting me like a good mother would. She shows me Jesus, who tells me Elijah’s fever is gone. Completely. With no medicine needed. I know that sounds nutty. Like something you’d hear from a wacky Charismatic Pentecostal, but it happened.
When the doctors wheel my boy back into the room, he’s hooked up to a ventilator and looks…lifeless. My mind races to dark places. What if that voice wasn’t God, but just wishful thinking? What if the infection reached his brain? Could this be the end of my son’s short life? No parent wants to face that question. I break again.
As they hook him up to all his monitors, we finally get good news. The nurse casually mentions that, without any medication, my son’s fever broke. His temperature is back to normal. I feel the hair on my arms stand up. What Jesus told me happened. I feel the warm comfort of the Mother of God wrap around me, reminding me she interceded for me — for my son.
My son stays in the hospital for over a week. The doctors scrape the infection out of his sinus cavity that caused the eye to swell. It’s a long road to recovery, but by the grace of God, poured out through the Mother of God, he’s doing well now, a year after the worst day of my life.
I could not have survived the trauma if I hadn’t leaned on the comfort the Blessed Mother gave every time I prayed my rosary. It was truly miraculous. If you’re Catholic and don’t pray the rosary every day, I urge you to start. Our Lady loves each of her children. She’ll be there for you, always leading you to Jesus, giving you comfort and reassurance in the darkest days.
Thanks, Mom. For everything.
