Denine: High Fever

(This is another except from the story I wrote about my profoundly handicapped daughter Denine who was born in 1973 and died in 1979. Writing her story brought closure and incredible healing to my heart. I have been encouraged to publish it and am presently editing it.)

            In January 1975 I was pregnant with my second child. My husband Ken got a dreadful case of tonsillitis and was home sick for a couple of days.  As he waited in the doctor's office, I carried Denine in a bitterly cold wind to a nearby store to buy a chocolate bar. I never thought how cold it was for her.

            The next day she started to run a fever.  As she got hotter, I bundled her up cozy and warm in a baby quilt and cuddled her.  I made a doctor's appointment for the afternoon.  One thing about our family doctor was that we always had confidence in him that they would see us today when we were sick not next week when they could work us in.  As the hour approached I took Denine's temperature and it was 105.5 F. I called his office and asked if he would come to the house to see her. He would not. He said to bundle her up lightly and bring her in right away. I was scared.

            She had picked up the flu and was very sick. She was admitted to the hospital in Brantford right away. We went through the usual routine of charts and forms. This time she had her love seat and soother. I took her a carton of yogurt and wheat germ which she liked to eat.  They lost her soother.  That same day I picked up some baby pictures I'd had taken a couple of weeks earlier. She had progressed in her therapy to the point of being able to sit alone if we positioned her just so and gave her something to get her attention.  When distracted, she fell over. She could sit for 3‑4 minutes.

Denine age 18 months

            I went home from the hospital several hours later to my sick husband and told him all that had happened.  He said, "Maybe she'll even die." 
           "No! She can't die! She's my baby! How dare he say such a thing! Doesn't he care about her at all?"
            He was being realistic.

            At bedtime, I went into her empty room. I looked at her crib and her toys and clothes.  "No she can’t die!  God, please don’t take her from me. I couldn't bear to lose her." I did not release the pent up tears. Two days later, she came home, perfectly healthy but a bit weaker. 
           

Blessings,
Chris