Heaven Is for Real: A Little Boy's Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back (3 page)

Okay, Ill hold her, he said. But just for a little bit.

Before he could change his mind, we all trooped back into the Crawl-A-See-Um, and I corralled the keeper. This is Colton, and he wants to give it a try, I said.

The keeper smiled and bent down. Okay, Colton, are you ready?

Stiff as a board, our son held out his hand, and I bent over and cradled it in my own.

Now, this is super easy, Colton, the keeper said. Just hold your hand out flat and still. Rosie is very gentle. She wont hurt you.

The keeper raised his hand, and Rosie sidled over to Coltons hand and back to the keepers waiting hand on the other side, never even slowing down. We all broke into cheers and clapped for Colton as the keeper handed him his sticker. He had faced his fear! It was a big victory for him. The moment seemed like icing on the cake of a perfect day.

As we left the Butterfly Pavilion, I reflected back over the past several months. It was hard to believe that the broken leg, the kidney stones, the lost work, the financial stress, three surgeries, and the cancer scare had all happened in half a years time. In that moment, I realized for the first time that I had been feeling like Id been in a fight. For months, Id had my guard up, waiting for the next punch life could throw. Now, though, I felt completely relaxed for the first time since the previous summer.

If Id let my mind roll with that boxing metaphor just a little longer, I mightve followed it to its logical conclusion: In a boxing match, the fighters absorb some vicious blows because theyre ready for them. And usually, the knockout punch is the one they didnt see coming.

FOUR SMOKE SIGNALS

Later that evening, with a swim under their belts, Cassie and Colton sat in a big round booth at the Old Chicago Restaurant in Greeley, Colorado, coloring happily while Sonja and I chatted with Pastor Steve Wilson and his wife, Rebecca. We had already chowed down on some terrific Italian food, including the usual kid favoritespizza, spaghetti, and garlic bread.

Steve was senior pastor of a church of between fifteen hundred and two thousand peoplenearly as many people as lived in our hometown of Imperial. It was a chance for Sonja and me to get to know another pastor in our district and to get some ideas on how other pastors do ministry. We planned to visit Steves church, Greeley Wesleyan, the next day. Sonja especially wanted to get a look at how the churchs Sunday morning childrens program worked. Rebecca divided her time between the grown-up conversation and coloring with the kids.

Wow, Colton, youre doing a really good job coloring that pizza! she said. Colton offered a thin, polite smile but had fallen unusually quiet. Then, a few minutes later, he said, Mommy, my tummy hurts.

Sonja and I exchanged a glance. Was it the stomach flu coming back? Sonja laid the back of her hand against Coltons cheek and shook her head. You dont feel hot, hon.

I think Im gonna throw up, Colton said.

I dont feel so good, either, Mommy, Cassie said.

We figured it was something they ate. With both kids feeling under the weather, we ended our dinner early, said good-bye to the Wilsons, and headed back to the hotel, which was just across the parking lot from the restaurant. As soon as we got the door to our room open, Coltons prediction came true: he upchucked, beginning on the carpet and ending, as Sonja whisked him into the tiny bathroom, in the toilet.

Standing in the bathroom doorway, I watched Coltons small form bent over and convulsing. This didnt seem like any kind of food poisoning.

Gotta be that stomach flu, I thought. Great.

That was how the evening began. It continued with Colton throwing up every thirty minutes like clockwork. Between times, Sonja sat in an upholstered side chair with Colton on her lap, keeping the rooms ice bucket within reach in case she couldnt make it to the bathroom. About two hours into this cycle, another kid joined the party. As Colton was in the bathroom, heaving into the toilet with Sonja kneeling beside him, a steadying hand on his back, Cassie ran in and threw up in the tub.

Great, I thought. Now they both have it.

Or did they? After we were able to move both kids back to the bedroom, Sonja and I put our heads together. Colton had seemed to kick that stomach flu the day before. And all day long at the Butterfly Pavilion, he was his normal self, completely happy except for the strain of holding Rosie to get that sticker. Cassie had held Rosie too . . . could Goliath tarantulas trigger a case of double upchuck?

No, dummy, I told myself and pushed the thought aside.

Did the kids eat the same thing at the restaurant? I asked Sonja, who by then was lying on one of the double beds with one arm around each of our two green-at-the-gills kids.

She looked at the ceiling and thought for a moment. I think they both had some pizza . . . but we all had pizza. I think its that flu. Colton probably wasnt over it quite yet, and he passed it along to Cassie before we got here. The doctor said it was pretty contagious.

No matter what, it looked like our relaxing, post-turmoil celebration trip was abruptly coming to an end. And a few minutes later, I heard the magic words that seemed to confirm my thoughts: Mommy, I feel like Im gonna throw up again.

Sonja snatched up Colton and hustled him to the toilet again, just in the nick of time.

When the pink light of dawn began peeking through the curtains the next morning, Sonja was still awake. We had agreed that at least one of us should still go visit Greeley Wesleyan and get some large-church ministry knowledge we could export to Imperial, so I tried to get at least a little sleep. That left Sonja with nursing duties, which included an almost hourly trek back and forth to the bathroom with Colton. Cassie had gotten sick only one other time during the night, but whatever this bug was, it seemed to have latched onto our little boys innards and dug in deep.

We checked out of the hotel early and drove over to the Greeley home of Phil and Betty Lou Harris, our close friends and also superintendents for the Wesleyan church district that includes all of Colorado and Nebraska. The original plan had been that our two families would attend the Wilsons church together that morning. Now, though, with a pair of sick kids, we decided that Sonja would stay at the Harrises home. Betty Lou, sweet lady that she is, volunteered to stay home and assist.

When I got back from church just after lunch, Sonja gave me the status report: Cassie was feeling a lot better. She had even been able to eat a little something and keep it down. But Colton continued to vomit on a clockwork basis and had been unable to hold anything down.

Colton was in the Harrises living room, huddled in the corner of the huge couch on top of a blanket/drop cloth with a bucket standing nearby just in case. I walked over and sat down beside him.

Hey, buddy. Not doing so great, huh?

Colton slowly shook his head, and tears welled up in his blue eyes. I mightve been in my thirties, but over the last few months, Id learned only too well what it was like to feel so sick and miserable that you just wanted to cry. My heart hurt for my son.

Come here, I said. I pulled him into my lap and looked into his little round face. His eyes, usually sparkling and playful, looked flat and weak.

Phil walked over and sat down beside me and reviewed the symptoms: abdominal pain, profuse vomiting, a fever that had come and gone. Could it be appendicitis?

I thought about it for a moment. There was certainly a family history. My uncles appendix had burst, and Id had a wicked case of appendicitis in college during the time Sonja and I were dating. Also, Sonja had had her appendix out when she was in second grade.

But the circumstances here didnt seem to fit the bill. The doctor in Imperial had diagnosed him with stomach flu. And if it was appendicitis, there would be no reason Cassie would be sick too.

We spent Sunday night with the Harrises in Greeley. By morning, Cassie had completely recovered, but Colton had spent a second night throwing up.

As we packed our duffel bags and headed outside to load up the Expedition, Phil gazed at Colton, cradled in Sonjas arms. He looks pretty sick to me, Todd. Maybe you should take him to the hospital here.

For Sonja, our first red flag waved when we stopped at a Safeway just outside Greeley to buy Pull-Ups. Colton, who had been potty-trained for more than two years, had tinkled in his underwear. It worried Sonja that he didnt even protest when she laid him down in the backseat of the Expedition and helped him into a pair of Pull-Ups. Under normal circumstances, he would have been indignant: Im not a baby! Now, though, he didnt utter a peep.

Instead, once strapped back into his car seat, he only clutched his belly and moaned. Two hours into the drive, he was crying constantly, stopping about every thirty minutes to throw up again. In the rearview mirror, I could see the heartbreak and helplessness on Sonjas face. Meanwhile, I tried to focus on the goal: get him to Imperial, get some IVs in him, stop the dehydration that surely must be setting in as this flu ran its course.

We reached Imperial in just under three hours. At the hospital, a nurse took us back to an examination room pretty quickly, with Sonja carrying Colton, cradling his head against her shoulder the way she had when he was an infant. Within a few minutes, the doctor who had seen Colton on Friday joined us, and we brought him up to date on the situation. After a brief exam, he ordered blood tests and an Xray, and I think I took a breath for the first time since we rolled out of Greeley. This was progress. We were doing something. In a short while, wed have a diagnosis, probably a prescription or two, and Colton would be on the way to recovery.

We took Colton to the lab, where he screamed as a tech tried her best to find a vein. That was followed by Xrays that were better only because we convinced Colton that there were no needles involved. Within an hour, we were back in the exam room with the doctor.

Could it be appendicitis? Sonja asked the doctor.

He shook his head. No. Coltons white blood cell count isnt consistent with appendicitis. We are concerned, though, about his Xrays.

I looked at Sonja. It was at that moment we realized wed been banking on a really nasty virus. We were completely unprepared for something more serious. The doctor led us into the hallway, where there was already an Xray clipped to an illuminator. When I saw what was in the picture, my heart dropped into my stomach: The Xray of our sons tiny little torso showed three dark masses. It looked for all the world as if his insides had exploded.

Sonja began shaking her head and tears, which had hovered just beneath the surface, spilled onto her cheeks.

Are you sure its not appendicitis? I asked the doctor.

Theres a family history.

Again he said no. Thats not what the blood tests show.

Then what is it?

Im not sure, he said.

FIVE SHADOW OF DEATH

That was Monday, March 3. Nurses placed Colton in a room and inserted an IV. Two bags dangled from the top of a stainless steel pole, one for hydration and one with antibiotics of some kind. Sonja and I prayed together for Colton. Norma stopped by with Coltons favorite toy, his Spider-Man action figure. Normally, his eyes wouldve lit up at the sight of either Norma or Spider-Man, but Colton didnt react at all. Later, our friend Terri brought Coltons best little buddy, her son Hunter, to visit. Again, Colton was unresponsive, almost lifeless.

Sitting in a side chair near Coltons bed, Norma looked at Sonja grimly. I think you should take him to Childrens Hospital in Denver.

But at that point, we were trusting in the doctors, confident that everything was being done that could be done. Besides, Colton was in no condition to travel all the way back to Colorado.

Colton continued to throw up. Sonja held down the fort, comforting him, catching his vomit, while I drove home to check in on the rest of our lives. On the way, I stopped by the church to make sure the place hadnt burned down. I checked in with my garage-door guys, returned some phone calls from new customers, and went out to do a door repair job. The entire time I was away from the hospital, I sent up prayers. Even during my conversations with others, my prayers ascended, a kind of mental background music that wouldve been in the foregroundthe only groundif only life didnt have an annoying way of rolling on.

Sonja spent Monday night at the hospital, and I stayed home with Cassie. On Tuesday morning, I took her to school. During the rest of the day, between church and company responsibilities, I popped in and out of the hospital as often as I could, hoping for some improvement. Instead, each time I walked into Coltons room, I saw my little boy slipping deeper into the grip of whatever mysterious monster held him. Not only was he not getting better; he was getting worse faster.

I recognized it instantly. As a pastor, you sometimes find yourself on a deathwatch. In a hospital. A nursing home. A hospice. There are telltale signs: the skin loses its pinkness and fades to a jaundiced yellow. Breathing is labored. The eyes are open but the person is not present. And most telling of all, a sinking and darkening around the eyes. I had seen this look many times, but in a context where you might expect it, in a patient suffering from terminal cancer or in the final phases of old age. You know that persons life on earth has come down to days, then hours, then minutes. I would be there to comfort the family, to pray with them prayers like, God, please take her soon. Please take away her pain.

This time, though, I was seeing the shadow of death again and I was seeing it on my son. My not-quite-four-year-old son. The sight hit me like a bullet.

A voice screamed inside my head, Were not doing anything!

Im a pacer. I wore ruts in the floor of Coltons room, crossing the tiny space again and again like a caged lion. My stomach churned. Inside my chest, an invisible vise squeezed my heart. Hes getting worse, God! What do we do?

While I paced, Sonja channeled her anxiety into the role of busy caretaker. She fluffed Coltons pillow, arranged his blankets, made sure he was still drinking. It was a role she was filling to keep from exploding. Each time I looked at her, I could see the agitation growing in her eyes. Our son was slipping away and, like me, she wanted to know: What. Was. Wrong? The doctors would bring back test results, test results, test results. But no answers, only useless observations. He doesnt seem to be responding to the medication. I dont know . . . I wish the surgeon was here.

Sonja and I wrestled with trust. We werent doctors. We had no medical experience. Im a pastor; shes a teacher. We wanted to trust. We wanted to believe the medical professionals were doing everything that could be done. We kept thinking, Next time the doctor walks in, hell have new test results; hell change the medication; hell do something to get that look of death off our son.

But he didnt. And there came a point when we had to draw the line.

SIX NORTH PLATTE

On Wednesday, we broke the news to the Imperial hospital staff that we were taking Colton to the Great Plains Regional Medical Center in North Platte. We considered Normas suggestion of Childrens in Denver, but felt it would be better to stay closer to our base of support. It took a while to get Colton checked out, as it does anytime you leave a hospital, but to us it seemed an eternity. Finally, a nurse came in with the discharge papers, a copy of Coltons test results, and a large, flat brown envelope containing his Xrays. Sonja called ahead to the office of pediatrician Dr. Dell Shepherd to let his staff know we were coming.

At 10:30 a.m., I picked Colton up out of the hospital bed and was shocked at the limpness of his body. He felt like a rag in my arms. It wouldve been a great time to panic, but I tried to keep my cool. At least we were doing something now. We were taking action.

Coltons car seat was strapped into the backseat of our SUV. Gently, I laid him in, wondering as I buckled him in how fast I could make the ninety-minute trip to North Platte. Sonja climbed into the backseat with Colton, armed with a pink plastic hospital dish for catching vomit.

The day was sunny but cold. As I steered the SUV onto Highway 61, I twisted the rearview mirror so that I could see Colton. Several miles passed in silence; then I heard him retching into the bowl. When he was finished, I pulled over so that Sonja could empty it onto the side of the road. Back on the highway, I glanced in the mirror and saw Sonja slip the Xray film from the brown envelope and hold it up in the streaming sunlight. Slowly, she began shaking her head, and tears filled her eyes.

We screwed up, she said, her voice breaking over the images she would later tell me were burned in her mind forever.

I turned my head back enough to see the three small explosions she was staring at. The misshapen blotches seemed huge in the ghostly image of Coltons tiny torso. Why did they seem so much bigger now?

Youre right. We shouldve known, I said.

But the doctor . . .

I know. We shouldnt have listened.

There wasnt any finger-pointing, no blaming each other. But we were both really upset with ourselves. We had tried to do the right thing at each step. The doctor said Xrays; we did Xrays. The doctor said IVs; we did IVs. The doctor said blood tests; we did blood tests. He was the doctor, right? He knew what he was doing . . . right? At each turning point, we had tried to make the right call, but we had made the wrong ones, and now Colton was paying for it. A helpless child was suffering the consequences of our mistakes.

Behind me, Colton slumped lifelessly in his car seat, and his silence was louder than any sound I had ever heard.