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Humor, Hope and Helium
By Carla Schult
The second-hand on the clock ticked steadily into minutes as I sat watching my 3-year-old son
fight for his life. Feelings of terror, heartache and helplessness coursed through me at the
doctor‟s words, “There is nothing more we can do; it‟s up to God and your son to fight this.” I
was stunned! Perhaps I had been in denial for the past 3 weeks but I believed with a calm
assurance that Micah would pull through and be just fine. This was just a little speed bump on
the road of life.
At the age of 26 I was told that I was not and probably never would be able to conceive. So, we
adopted. Fifteen years later I began having problems and went to see my doctor ~ fearing the
worst as most of us in the medical field do. I was certain this was the end for me; nausea, body
pain, loss of appetite and weight loss could only mean one thing: the big „C‟! Imagine my shock
when I was told I was four months pregnant! I still don‟t believe I was into the 2nd trimester of
pregnancy and didn‟t know it! My husband and I ran the gamut of emotions from shock and
denial to fear and finally, joyful acceptance.
Like magic I felt better and started to gain some weight back. What a feeling! I was so proud to
wear maternity clothes and couldn‟t wait to really grow into them. Each morning I looked
forward to opening the cupboard and reading the words on a package, “prenatal vitamins.” They
were really and truly mine to take!
Unfortunately, I wasn‟t allowed the opportunity to enjoy it for long. Just into my 24th week, my
dad suddenly passed away. I was heartbroken; he would never get to meet his grandson or see
him grow up. The pain of losing him was almost more than I could bear.
On a Sunday morning, Mothers Day 2001, my water broke. At first I thought it was a weird kind
of incontinence caused by pregnancy. I didn‟t know any different and sure didn‟t expect this!
Planning to enter the seminary (which never happened) my husband was at church assisting with
services. I called the church office to get a message to him.
The message got to the pastor instead. Now I am talking about a very large church, and it just
happened to be the service being taped for television. Loud and clear, the pastor announced,
“John, you need to leave immediately to meet your wife at the hospital. Her water broke!” Not
realizing that this wasn‟t a good thing, the congregation erupted in applause as John left the altar.
Of course, the tape aired and everyone in town that knew us was calling.
I was transferred via ambulance to a hospital with a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. There I waited
nearly four weeks, confined to bed in a city an hour from home. The longer I could hold off
labor, the bigger and healthier the baby would be. Micah came into the world weighing in at 3
lbs. 4 oz. His APGAR scores were all 9‟s and he was breathing well enough for me to hold him
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before they whisked him off to NICU. Micah John, our miracle baby. He did very well but
needed to grow to 5 lbs. before we could take him home. I was able to come home for a day or
two and then headed back to be with him.
As Micah grew he had the usual childhood ailments; colds, ear infections and was even
hospitalized with Rotavirus once.
We took a trip to the Twin Cities when Micah was around 2 and for the first time, Micah had
some breathing problems. During the night I woke and heard him gasping for breath. I danced
him around the room a bit and he was much better. The rest of the night was fine but the next day
he had another short bout. At the urgent care clinic he was diagnosed with asthma and given a
prescription for nebulizer treatments. We kept that little machine with us wherever we went!
Micah did fine and nothing serious came up, whenever he started breathing hard we gave him a
treatment. He needed them less and less as time went on.
One morning when Micah was just under 3, he woke up and didn‟t look so well. He appeared
pasty and was retracting hard when breathing out. He sounded wheezy and felt warm but no
fever was present. I took him to our family physician who told me to go directly to the ED and
see a pediatric specialist. Micah was admitted and seen by the specialist while respiratory
therapy kept a constant nebulizer going. So many people in the room all talking to him at once
scared the dickens out of him. I wedged my way to his side and attempted to calm him down. I
wasn‟t smart enough to be scared, I guess. Before I knew what was happening we were loaded
into an ambulance on our way back to the hospital where he was born.
I was told to sit up front while the EMT‟s took care of Micah in the back. My heart was stuck in
my throat as I listened to him cry, “Mommy! Mommy!” Not being able to get to him was the
worst feeling I have ever had. I‟m not sure which one of us cried harder. Mercifully, a sedative
finally took effect and he fell asleep.
My husband met us at the hospital and we followed the cart down a long, long corridor to PICU.
They took my baby right in and after waiting 15 minutes, I couldn‟t take it anymore. Without
permission I went straight in – just as the doctor was inserting a PICC line. He had hit an artery
and there was blood all over the place. I knew how common this was and didn‟t panic, but what
did cause terror was the sight of Micah hooked up to a million tubes and IV‟s and already
intubated. I couldn‟t grasp the significance of that – he could no longer breath on his own so a
machine had to do it for him. The doctors had no answer as to why or what happened.
Over the course of the next three weeks, dozens of tests were done – cultures, spinal tap, daily
blood work and chest x-rays every-other day. The official diagnosis was „respiratory distress‟ but
no reason was ever found. All tests returned negative. With every x-ray we were full of hope.
They were looking for an air pocket, even a tiny one as Micah‟s lungs were completely
collapsed. Like he inhaled superglue and his lungs were stuck tight. But, every report was the
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same; no change. My mom „moved‟ in with me there so John could go back to work. We kept a
constant vigil, day and night. Respiratory therapy started a different treatment with some type of
vest, that when turned on caused Micah to jostle and bounce all over the bed like a chigger on the
lake. Mom and I would laugh until we were sore at the hilarity of it. These treatments did
absolutely nothing to help but never once did I even have the thought that he wouldn‟t make it.
Later, my mom confessed to some serious worry and I guess I should have, but didn‟t. Hindsight
always comes with perfect vision.
After another unchanged x-ray, the pediatric intensivist called a family meeting. My husband and
mom were with me as we were shown all of the test results and images that showed no
improvement after 21 days of being on the ventilator. And then came those awful words, “There
is nothing more we can do. It‟s up to God and Micah to fight this.” Huh? What was that? I
didn‟t hear you correctly – are you saying we should give up? He had a nonchalant, wait-and-
see attitude. Slowly but surely, reality dawned and grew brighter as the seconds, minutes and
hours ticked away. We prayed and then we prayed, and then we prayed some more.
I was abruptly awakened one afternoon to find a respiratory therapist giving the vest treatment.
The therapist on duty that day was a retired man who still works occasional shifts. He introduced
himself and we began a friendly chat as the treatment went on. At one point, he said, “Ya know,
back in the day when we had a case like this, we used helium of all things! Yep, it weighs less
than oxygen and would open a microscopic pocket in the lungs, just enough to get a tiny amount
of air in. Then the ole‟ lungs would take off and inflate like hot air balloons.”
“Why on earth didn‟t someone think of that?” I asked, “Let‟s do it!”
“Oh, no! I don‟t think so,” replied my new friend, “That hasn‟t been used in many years. Don‟t
rightly know if a fella could even get a hold of such a thing anymore and if he could, don‟t know
if the docs would even allow it.”
“Oh yes they will!” I replied. He gave me a quizzical look as if I had gone completely nuts. I
think I had, actually.
I went right to the main physician at the nurse‟s station, the one that had given us the defeating
news. I told him what the therapist had said and he looked genuinely surprised but intrigued. He
did discuss it with the therapist and came back and told me they were considering it. Had to find
the right connections and some other gobbledy-gook I didn‟t follow. I only cared that we once
again had hope!
That very same afternoon, the RT returned with a rust, dusty tank. He had found it in the
basement of the hospital. “Must have been there for years,” he said, “don‟t get excited yet, I
don‟t even know if it has anything in it.”
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I recall asking him if it did have helium in it, and if Micah did respond to it, would he wake up
with a high squeaky voice and sound like bugs bunny? We laughed over the thought.
Together the doctor and therapist constructed some tubing to attach to the tank and the ventilator
that was breathing for Micah. Along with other family and friends, John and I gathered around
for the big moment. The tank was connected and, and, and…nothing. I expected Micah to wake
up and say, “Hi mom! I hung-wee.” But nothing happened.
Panic stricken, I raced out to the nurse‟s station, crying, and told them that it wasn‟t working.
Smiling patiently like doctors do, he told me that we wouldn‟t know if it was successful until the
next chest x-ray. “OK, let‟s get it done!” was my reply. Two long hours later, they did get it
done and, and, and….yes! It was working!
Another 12 hours and barring any unforeseen circumstances, Micah could be breathing on his
own. With thanksgiving, I can tell you that it was just less than 9 hours when the tube was
removed. They had stopped medications like Versed and Morphine so Micah could wake up.
They removed the tube and after 2 solid week s of PT, OT and speech therapy, Micah came
home.
Micah is now a happy, healthy 10-year-old – thanks to one old respiratory therapist and the
willingness of the doctor to try an old rusty-dusty remedy. I regret that I don‟t remember the
name of this therapist but I owe him Micah‟s life. Modern medicine is extraordinary but
sometimes it just doesn‟t provide the right answer. When all else fails, listen to the wisdom
found in history – I believe there lies every precedent that will ever be set. And there also lies the
answers to many seemingly unanswered prayers. Never again will I question the sense of things I
don‟t understand. And above all, laugh until it hurts. Life just doesn‟t get any better than that.