Every time I hear the word ventilator, I’m transported back to a tiny hospital room at the end of a corridor, at Albany Medical Center. It was January of 2010, and our sweet, vulnerable Catie was seemingly dying. Mark and I had been keeping vigil for several days as Cate’s blood pressure began dropping to forty-something over twenty-something.  Her respirations were shallow, rapid, and so labored that her huge, now sunken, hazel eyes pleaded for mercy.  Catie was septic and her blood gases were all dangerously abnormal.
Dr. Farkas, from ICU walked into the room followed by three or four residents.  Linda, Cate’s primary nurse, and the attending physician, from the medical unit, Dr. Thomas, were already with us.  Their faces were somber as they all squeezed around the bed.
Dr. Farkas broke the silence with “You don’t have to make a decision right now Mr. and Mrs. Roche, but within ten or fifteen minutes I need to know if you want me to transfer Caitlyn to ICU so we can put her on a ventilator.”
“Is that what’s best for her Doctor? Is there a down side?” I had entered nurse mode, but with the enormity of having to make such a decision within minutes, I was beginning to panic.
“She’s struggling to breathe without help, but she’s young, and she has a strong heart so she could possibly manage to pull through this on her own. The down side would be that she may not be able to come off the ventilator when the crisis passes because she can’t follow the instructions that would be required to make that transition.  We’ll let you both think things over now.”
Everyone in a white coat turned and left as a unit.  Linda, placed her hand near my shoulder and squeezed my arm.  A lovely gesture infused with solidarity.  She then followed the rest of the medical team out the door and left us alone in the sparse, dimly lit room where the weight of the world was descending upon us.

“What should we do Irish?”  I bent over Catie’s tiny, skeletal body struggling for air and held her as I wrestled with Mark’s question.  We couldn’t stop weeping.  Then, for a fleeting moment, a vivid image of Jesus on the Cross transposed over her. Agony.  Cate was in agony. Jesus was with her.  Mark and I were frozen in time.  In fear. We didn’t want Catie to die.  And there was no way we wanted to give her one more medical “THING” to have to live with if she recovered.

“We have to call people to pray.  That’s all I know to do.  Can you call Father Carlino and ask him what we should do?”  Father answered immediately and told us either decision would be alright. He said morally there was no “right” decision here.  But we still couldn’t see clearly what was best for Catie, and the minutes were slipping away.

I called Marianne, our beloved elderly friend from church. She had been our unofficial spiritual director since Cate was an infant. Marianne, is the local saint and the spreader of the ‘Good News’ in Schenectady and beyond. Since experiencing deliverance from alcoholism years ago, she has lived a life of prayer and service to St. Paul’s Community, the area hospitals, and the Albany diocese.  A believer in God’s desire to heal his people by prayer as well as medicine, she was, and still is at ninety-three, a beloved force to reckon with. If every community had a Marianne, parishes would be transformed. This dear mensch of a Catholic, immediately mobilized St. Paul’s prayer line.
Not two minutes passed and Catie started to look better! I checked her pulse. It was slower, stronger, less thready.  Her blood pressure was rising and her eyes were no longer wide with terror. One of the medical residents stood in the doorway and observed Catie briefly.  He took note of the monitors and left.  I can still see his compassionate eyes.  They told me he too was pulling for Cate.
Something was taking over. I KNEW it. The paralysis of indecision was lifting. Catie was quieting.  The fear in her eyes had given way to peace.  She was beginning to rest.  Hopeful, and invigorated, as I rushed toward the door, I yelled back to Mark, “I’m going out to the desk.” The team of men in white coats were all hovering around their instructor, Dr. Farkas, discussing our precious girl.
Heading straight into the center of the group, I blurted out, “Can you order another set of blood gases for Catie? She looks better to me. Her vitals are improving too.”
The resident who had just peeked in the room, piped up from behind me, reinforcing my assessment by saying,  “Yes, she does look better. I was thinking the same thing.”
Dr. Farkas agreed to my request.

Within moments, the same lab technician who had struggled to get blood out of Cate’s frail little body for the previous two blood draws was back.  And, despite the graveness of the situation, she was just as disgruntled and vocal, maybe even more so, at having to go through the procedure one more time. “Easy for them to say. Get another blood sample.”  was all she muttered as she rolled her eyes and jerked her little basket of supplies off the counter.

We NEEDED that blood.  So once again Mark and I held hands and silently prayed for her success.  And once again blood began flowing into her tubes as soon as we prayed.  Still complaining to herself, she mouthed “They should really give me a raise!”
Within ten minutes, Dr. Farkas returned to Cate’s room, lab report in hand.
“Everything is NORMAL??” He spoke clearly, but the look on his face spelled utter confusion. I’m sure he was over-joyed that Cate was now stable, but he had absolutely no idea of how to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. He paced in small circles,  shaking his head slightly from side to side, and muttering “I don’t think she’s as sick as I thought she was. I don’t think she’s septic.” He stopped moving and his eyes searched mine briefly. Then, shaking his head, he stared off into the heavens again, deep in thought.
“Dr. Farkas, (I interrupted his interior chaos) we called our priest and a prayer chain we’re part of, to pray for Catie.”
He turned abruptly to look at me as I spoke, but didn’t say a word. He knew what he’d seen, and what the reports had verified, but thought,  “How could this be?”  This bright man of science was not the first, nor was he the last soul, that broken little Catie, without so much as a word, introduced to Jesus, the Divine Physician.

“She seems to be out of the woods now, but I’d still like to put her in ICU so we can observe her tonight.”  Cate’s instantaneous recovery had rocked his world.  At first I bristled inside for a moment, but as Mark leaned in and whispered “Irish, we can sleep!”, I agreed.

We met Catie’s wonderful young ICU nurse and then left our girl to her care.  The two of us slept so deeply on the hard, short sofas in the visitors lounge next door . . . .  with a peace that passes understanding.  Catie did too.

Catie and Daddy walking at Kaydeross.

We seemed to go from crisis to crisis. We were definitely at the end of our own resources. One day Marianne suggested to Mark that he stop by and check out the Saturday seven PM Mass. She said they would pray with him afterwards. Mark got there a little early and actually saw part of the Mass before receiving prayer from a team of people.

When he arrived home, he was still trying to take it all in. He said “Irish, they were singing and it was different from anything I ever heard. It sounded like angels or something.” Before long we had joined the “Spirit of Love Prayer Group” that met every Thursday evening at eight o’clock in St. Paul’s basement. As it turned out, we had just been allotted two hours a week of in-home respite. That was what we used it for – a chance to re-charge our batteries and join in a community of faith that was alive and expectant. At first, we felt so awkward. People had their hands in the air, they prayed in tongues and when they closed their eyes to pray, they said they “saw” things (When I closed my eyes, I saw eyelids.) or they received “Words of Knowledge”. I knew this was all in Scripture, and by now I had had a few experiences myself, but they had come to me totally by surprise, in so far as, timing and content were concerned. Sure, I had prayed about the situations, but I wasn’t used to praying and receiving immediate guidance or answers upon request.

As I always did, I prayed and read about the whole thing. They were “charismatic”, meaning God could and would use ordinary men and women (not just canonized saints) to heal and uplift His people by allowing them to operate in the charisms, or ‘Gifts of the Spirit’. Right away we learned that there were some “mature” and truly gifted people within the community, and others who were either new, had some emotional problems, or were unintentionally relaying their own thoughts and feelings.  The people leading the group were experienced and wise people, others seemed to be attracted to the spontaneity and freedom this form of worship offered.  I came to the conclusion that there were the same kinds of people everywhere, and we sought out those we respected, ignored those we questioned, and had spiritual direction from our priests.  We were going to use all the spiritual tools at our disposal.  We looked forward to going each week. It was joyful and personal and it helped us both as we dealt with our concerns, problems and griefs.

That summer of 1986 my mother kept saying she wanted us to take Catie to Canada to St. Joseph’s Shrine in Montreal (The foster father of Jesus) and to St. Anne de Beaupre’s shrine (The mother of Mary and the grandmother of Jesus) in Quebec.  My Mom and Dad had been there not too long before and they loved them both.  They offered to babysit for the boys so we thought “Why not?”

It was a hot summer and our little Dodge Aries wagon didn’t have air conditioning.  The windows in the back of the wagon were also designed so they didn’t open.  It was hot!  We arrived at St. Joseph’s in the early afternoon.  The shrine was beautiful.  Near the entrance of the basilica was a kind of pedestal with a glass dome over it.  It was about the size of a typical Baptismal Font.  There was a relic inside.  People would stand there for quite a while.  Most put their hands on it.  I remembered it to be a bone fragment of St. Joseph, as did Mark, but when I was writing this and looked up the Shrine in Montreal, I couldn’t find any mention of a relic of his.  (One thing I read said that there were no known authentic relics of Mary or Joseph anywhere.)  There is a relic of the heart of Brother Andre elsewhere at the shrine.  He was the founder and is now a canonized saint.  So maybe that was also a relic of his?  I’m not sure.   But I am one hundred percent certain that there was something holy under that glass. There was a peaceful power emanating out of that dome that contained this holy artifact.  People stood around it for extended periods in order to drink in the graces.  Mark, Catie and I also remained there for several minutes before we walked around the rest of the basilica.  There was an area near the front of this beautiful shrine that was filled with crutches, leg braces and canes, left by those who found healing through the intercession of Brother Andre and St. Joseph.  A few years after our pilgrimage I would meet someone who knew a recipient of healing from these intercessors personally.  Our friend, and one of Catie’s former nurses, Darlene, had a sister named Kim who had very similar disabilities as Caitlyn.  Kim had cerebral palsy and an intractable seizure disorder, as did Cate.  When Kimmie was little , her parents brought her to this healing place with a desire that she learn to walk independently.  Their prayers were answered.

As we walked around this huge basilica there was much to see. I was looking at something when I felt prompted to turn around.  As I did so, I was face-to-face with a statue of St. Therese.  I startled upon seeing it, much as you would when you turn around and discover that someone has been behind you that you didn’t detect.  After saying a little prayer to St. Therese we went back to the domed relic near the doors.  For whatever reason I said “Catie say goodbye to St. Joseph.”  She lunged forward from my arms and kissed the dome.  Clearly she perceived a holy presence.

We left St. Joseph’s Oratory, had a bite to eat and headed for Quebec and the St. Anne de Beaupre Shrine there.  It took a several hours to arrive at St. Anne’s.  We had no reservations and were fortunate to find a room in their hostel.  They had a crib too!  After putting our belongings in the room we headed to their little cafeteria area before it closed for the night.  We were sitting there eating our dinner when a man in a golf shirt and slacks came over to speak with us.

Is your little girl ill?

We explained Catie’s diagnosis.  He then said “I’m a priest and I will be concelebrating with a Bishop from the Philippine’s tomorrow.  If you would like me to, I will ask him to bless your child and to bring the relic of St. Anne’s arm over to touch her.”  This was so special and unique.  The relic of the arm of the maternal grandmother of Jesus, was encased in glass and safely held in a cabinet.  We agreed without any hesitation.

Relic of the arm of St. Anne de Beaupre, Quebec, Canada

The next morning we arose early for Mass and the bishop did just as the priest had promised.  After Mass we wandered around the gorgeous cathedral looking at all the shrine had to offer.  I turned from viewing something, and was once again startled to see another statue of the “Little Flower, St. Therese” right behind me.  By early afternoon we were ready to head home.  The weather continued to be hot and we still had no air conditioning.  We were getting hungry and needed to stop and refresh ourselves because we were spent.  (Catie was an absolute angel throughout the trip.)  Mark asked if I wanted to stop  near the Canadian border, but I said “Why don’t we just continue on to Plattsburgh (where we had both attended college and met one another)?  He agreed.

Finally, we made it through customs and reached a restaurant in Plattsburgh.  We parked and Mark opened the drivers side door.  With that a hinge broke and the door was partially hanging!  Before he could utter a complaint or vulgarity, a car immediately pulled up beside us.  Two mechanics piled out, tool box in hand, and said “Go on in and eat.  We’ll fix this.”

We went in, ordered, and had just received our meals when one of them poked his head in the restaurant door saying  “Finish your dinner, the car is all set now.”  They waved good bye and were gone.  These mechanics never charged us or even came in to eat or use the restroom.  They just disappeared.  The moral of my story here is this, when Mark, Catie and I go on a pilgrimage, God fixes our car for FREE!

We kept driving, and were soon near the Shrine of the North American Martyrs in Auriesville, N.Y.  We’re very familiar with this place as it’s close to our home.  Mark said “Do you want to round out our trip by stopping to say a prayer of thanksgiving for everything.  And especially for getting the car door fixed?”  I agreed.  We walked around the massive “coliseum”, said a few prayers and headed out the entrance.  Suddenly, quite close to the church structure, I saw another statue of St. Therese, surrounded by roses.  I had been to this place many times and never noticed this white statue.  Stunned a third time, I began to cry.  For years I had prayed to her to intercede for me, but since I’d been “Baptized in the Spirit”, I had forgotten about her.  I felt she was saying to me “Yoo-hoo, I’m still with you, and for you, even if you’ve not given me a thought.”  I love her.

Catie riding on her beloved pink car.

Catie was soon riding on a little plastic car. She literally zoomed all over the downstairs of the house like a race car driver. She’d look like she was going to crash sometimes, but then she’d stop and turn on a dime. Her motor planning skills were coming along. One day she was riding that little car up and down the driveway like Danica Patrick and a neighbor commented, “Now there’s a woman with a mission!” Cate loved swimming and swinging and playing with her brothers. We exposed her to as much social interaction and stimulation as we could possibly manage. She was a joy, although we still had heavy hearts about the seizures and her overall developmental risks.  Catie was doing so well that New Meadow Pre-School was willing to take her on.  They thought she was ready for potty training!  She began pre-school in September.

Early that fall I found out I was expecting again. We were a little worried about how we’d manage, but thought Catie would thrive with another sibling close to her age. Maybe she’d even have a little sister? The boys were all excited too.
On November fifth of 1985 (The day before she turned two.) Cate was scheduled to have another developmental exam. This time it would be with Dr. Anthony Malone, another pediatric developmental specialist. I’d heard he was very thorough and knowledgeable. Also, direct. Some of the other parents I knew had come away feeling he’d been a bit too forthcoming with them. Catie was all dressed up in pink, as usual, and she was having a very good day. (See photo below for the dress she wore.) You know how kids oftentimes won’t cooperate when you most want them to? Well, that was my fear. That she’d “make strange” with him and he wouldn’t be able to see what she knew and could do. Well, if I’d given her a million dollars to perform for the good doctor, she could not have done better. She did everything he requested of her, and then, I asked if I could have her do a few other things, like point to her body parts, etc. He agreed.
I said Catie where’s your eye, ear, hair, arm, elbow foot, etc. When we got to belly button, she pulled her little dress up over her head and poked her navel saying “There” (sounded like “dare”). Dr. Malone was dying laughing so I followed with, “Where are your “buns”?” Catie turned on her side, laughed and patted her backside saying “Right dare!” (Her brothers had her doing these things regularly. She knew she would get a big laugh and she was right.) This rather serious man was delighted. He saw intelligence and personality, and he was both stunned, and thrilled. He looked at me and said “Whatever you’re doing. Keep doing it. This kid is no minor miracle. She should be totally physically and mentally dependent.” Then he added “May I follow up with Caitlyn? I’m amazed at how well she’s doing.”

Catie’s two- year old photograph

Then one day in early December I began to have a cramping sensation in my abdomen, followed by spotting. Our neighbor, Eileen, came over to watch the boys, and Mark and I flew over to St. Peter’s hoping against hope that there was still time to save our baby.  I couldn’t believe what was happening. Could I really be having a second miscarriage on almost the same day, and the same point in the pregnancy, as the last time? Sure enough, once we got there, they couldn’t find a heartbeat.  I was four and a half months along.  Another wrenching Christmas grieving either a dead or sick baby.  This was the third time in four years.  They were afraid to induce labor because I was so far along.  It could cause my uterus to involute.  They said we’d just have to wait patiently for labor to begin.  That it could be hours.  I told Mark to head back home so Eileen could leave.  He left immediately, and no sooner had he done so when I went into labor.  I delivered the baby quite quickly too.  They asked me if I wanted to see my little one.  This time I said yes.  With my previous loss only Mark had seen the baby.  I had regretted that I’d declined to look.  This precious little child was big enough to fill the doctors hand.  He (They later told me they thought I had delivered a baby boy.) was perfectly formed, just like the last time.  And the doctor said the same thing to me as he’d said two years previously.  “The cord was wrapped around him several times.  Maybe that is what caused the loss. Grossly, everything looks perfectly formed.”  Mark was arriving home at about the time I delivered Michael (We named our lost children.).  As he entered the kitchen our cuckoo clock just stopped for no apparent reason.  Mark said that he “knew” immediately that I’d delivered the baby.  Moments later the phone rang and a nurse from St. Peter’s confirmed what he already knew.  It was two fifty AM when our little baby was born.

 

Catie getting ready to go after the whipped cream cake my friend Marcia made her on her first birthday!  Matthew is ready to help.

We returned from Lourdes refreshed. There was no miracle, but Catie continued to progress as long as we brought the world to her. She remained passive in all her expressive abilities: large motor, small motor, and oral motor. However, her affect remained bright and her receptive skills were continuing to grow nicely. Over the next weeks and months, she learned her major body parts, all the familiar objects in her daily routine (cup, cookie, eat, blocks, book, hungry, kiss, everyone’s names, etc., etc.). She could pull to stand using only her right hand, manipulate objects with her right hand and her mouth, take steps if we held her hands, and as her first birthday approached, she was saying “Good girl”, “Gonna get up. Gonna get out.” (from her crib every morning), Dada, Mama, and quite a few more words. When she crawled, she had a kind of hitching move that she would do because of the spasticity in her left arm (She held it close to her body and flexed tightly). I would always say “Catie, use your other hand too.” She’d then place both hands on the floor crawling correctly for a few moments.  Sometimes Cate would be moving on the floor on her own, and I’d here her say to herself “Odder hand. Odder hand.” She’d then put her left hand down on the floor and crawl as I would have told her to do! She had internalized my instruction and was anticipating it. How smart was that?

I made a list of her receptive words, including objects, verbs and people in her life, and tested her many times with the objects themselves and with pictures. When she did well with colored photos or flashcards, I went to black and white line drawings that were more abstract and she knew them too. Cate was doing well. At six months of age, the developmental specialist at the Newborn Follow-Up Program at AMC placed her two weeks behind her age. Since she had been so sick and in the NICU for two weeks, both Dr. Pickering and I thought she was on target or very close.

Life continued to be hectic. Appointments daily with Catie’s educational program. There were frequent neurological, orthopedic, and pediatric medical appointments too.  There were also constant blood draws, EEG’s, and appointments with orthotists and special equipment vendors. The boys were needy too because they were all so young. When things were tense with me and/or Mark they would pick up on it and act out. Children sense what’s going on and our kids clearly did. Mark’s job was demanding and he juggled and finagled to get time off for medical appointments. We had few breaks and little to no outside help. Money was getting tight without my part-time income and with our additional expenses. We thought maybe we would have to sell the new home we had just built. Not only would that have been emotionally difficult., but the turmoil of a move in the midst of everything else, would have been monumentally hard to deal with for all of us. We had neighbors that were our friends, and the kids had playmates and a school they liked, and we had our emotional/prayer support from church.

I would call Carol and Marianne with my concerns and they would pray both with me and for me, and also impart their wisdom about the ways of God to me, to keep me encouraged. They were my lifeline.

My sister Jamie and I are a year apart, had always shared a room growing up.  We were very loyal and close to one another. Jamie was perceptive about how things were going with all of us, and at times when things were reaching a point of desperation, she would intervene in some way. She’d come with meals, pray extra hard or send me little gifts. She caught on that money was a huge issue and she took it upon herself to tell our brother Chris, and ask if he could help us. Chris was single and doing well in his work in NYC as a software consultant. He has a big heart and always has. (I remember as a child of seven, when we lived in the Catskill Mountains, in the tiny village of Ashland, N.Y., we had a neighborhood family nearby that was very poor. They had seven kids and two were disabled. Wayne, a little boy near Chris’ age had Downs Syndrome. Chris would leave his other more typical friends oftentimes, to play with Wayne. One day my mother asked him “Why do you play with Wayne so much?” Chris answered “Because he has no one else to play with.”) Anyway, as soon as Chris knew what our situation was, he offered to lend us money. He gave us a generous amount, but months later when he learned we were still short, he sent us another check for almost triple that amount. Seeing that we were struggling to repay him, he said “You don’t have to pay me back.” We’ll always have a special love and gratitude for his magnanimous generosity when we were at our lowest, and feeling increasingly despondent. May God bless him one hundred fold.

Trisha with Mark, Paul and newborn Catie.

The fall of 1985 Trisha moved back to our area. She was in a halfway home nearby and not doing well. With no parents to turn to and all the psychological and addictive behaviors she was dealing with, she was becoming more and more depressed and dark. One day in February of 1986, we got a call that she had taken her life. Poor Mark was utterly devastated, as were his other siblings. He had lost his mother at age twenty-two, his father at age twenty-nine, had a daughter with brain damage at thirty, and now to lose a sister to suicide at thirty-two, was more than he could bear. The emotional impact was tremendous. There was great sorrow, anger, depression, and a merciless guilt that all family members of a suicide victim feel.

I was worried about Mark. He had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I was also worried about Trisha. Growing up I’d heard conflicting things about what happens to a person who commits suicide. A few days after her funeral I couldn’t take not knowing where she was.  I cried out loud to the Lord “Where is she? I need to know where she is!”
That night I went to bed at the same time as Mark. We were both fast asleep fairly quickly,  when I was suddenly awakened by what felt like bone and feathers brushing against me. I opened my eyes and there were two huge angels standing over the foot of our bed, on either side of Trisha. They were both dressed in long white robes and seemed to be escorting her and protecting her. Trisha was looking normal and quite well.  She was standing within what appeared to be a bluish kind of light (like a pilot light), and wearing something akin to sweat pants and a crew neck sweatshirt. Her face was clear (she had been all broken out before) and she seemed to be at peace.
I sat up in bed and said “Why did you do it?”
“I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Where are you?”
“Purgatory, but it’s not that bad.”
Then they were instantly all gone.
The last part I still don’t understand. I said to Mark “I just saw Trisha.” He answered “I know.” (But he was asleep.????)
The next morning, I went to Marianne to tell her what had happened. Gracie was there too. I didn’t dare share it with anyone else except Mark just yet for fear they’d think I was insane.
Marianne said “You had a contact Patty.”
Gracie added “What she had to live through down here was hell.”
Later that day I came across two scriptures, in two different books, that gave me a spiritual interpretation of what had occurred. One book had the passage from Mathew 18:10 “See that you despise not one of these little ones: for I say to you, that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.” Trisha had been with her guardian angels.
I then came across a second verse in another book by Ralph Martin, “But if someone’s work is burned up, that one will suffer loss; the person will be saved, but only as through fire.” (1 Corinthians 3:15) Trisha had been surrounded by a glowing blue light. I believed it was a purifying light, a kind of fire.

It made sense to me. God knew her torment. She had been brutalized by her assailant as a child and had not had proper psychological/spiritual treatment.  Then she had to experience the deaths of both parents. God was merciful. He knew her enormous wounds were too much for her to bear.  The Lord was healing her of the sins committed against her and all that followed as a result. In His infinite mercy He was making a way for her to be made whole so she’d be healed fully and free to enter heaven.

To put some perspective on this. Mark and I had had another heavenly encounter when his mother died ten years earlier.

Louise died in the early afternoon. I was working as a waitress while I was in nursing school, at the time. I got out of work late, so Mark didn’t want to tell me over the phone. We had made plans to go to Grafton Lake the following morning. This was something we often did because it worked well with my work schedule. We’d go and cook breakfast and then sleep on the beach, swim and have a picnic lunch too before we had to leave so I could work again. I answered the door of my apartment that morning, and turned away quickly without really looking at Mark.   I was rushing around and finishing packing up our beach things, chatting away about what I had prepared for us to eat, and how work had been the night before. Suddenly I noticed he was really quiet.
I looked at him and said “What’s the matter?”
“My Mom died last night.”
We sat on the couch crying and holding one another. We fell asleep crying. Suddenly I saw his mother. She was surrounded by beautiful trees and flowers. I said “I saw your mother.”
“I know. I saw her too.”
“What did she look like?”
“She was wearing white.”
“Yes! With flowers in her hair.”
“Yes!”
“Was her dress chiffon?”
“What’s chiffon?”
“It’s sheer and flowy. What was on her feet?”
“She was barefoot.”
“Yes! Did she look kind of like that lady in the commercial “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature?”
“Yes!”
She looked young and whole. No trace of cancer. She smiled at us and then it was over.  It was so beautiful and so comforting for Mark.

I believe part of the reason we had that experience was so that we would understand the contrast and context of the encounter with Trisha. God was allowing us to go through severe trials, but He provided understanding and peace and mercy to make them bearable.

”

Cate went five and a half months without any seizures. But in early May she began to have dozens and dozens of seizures daily. As I mentioned earlier, at that time, she was diagnosed with Infantile Spasms, a dire seizure disorder. I vividly remember Catie’s appointment with her pediatrician shortly after her neurological diagnosis. Dr. Petersen, the sweetest, kindest doctor you could ever find, looked at me and said “Mrs. Roche, we were all so sorry to hear that Caitlyn developed this.”

“But, he added, while smiling at Catie,  “She does look good, and not all kids who have this diagnosis, do poorly even though it’s a big concern.”

Catie’s overall health was great. She seldom had even a cold. Developmentally, she learned everything we took the time and effort to present to her in a manner by which she could take it in and process it. We had to make allowances for her overall low muscle tone, her impaired left side, seizure activity and the ongoing sleepiness from the medication.
To get around her difficulties we needed to work with her on her terms. When she was most rested, most alert and not seizing. We had to provide support for her left side and back, and speak in a super animated tone, with lots of expression and enthusiasm. I used to call it “aerobic education”. It was tiring because you had to give one hundred percent, but the fact that she drank it all in with such gusto made it easier. Cate was a happy girl. She was so attached to both Mark and I.  And, truth be told, I was her life line. I nursed her, I was with her all the time, I taught her, prayed constantly for her, and advocated like a lioness. She would cry when I left the room for months and months. It was both satisfying and also an enormous responsibility. Both of us loved her so deeply that there was no question but that we would try anything and everything that was medically and educationally sound. We were also determined to explore any and every orthodox spiritual course. We’re Catholic and we trusted the doctrine available to us. We were very aware of flawed Catholic people (As you’d find in any group), but the soundness of time-tested dogma was a safety net as far as we were concerned. Mark was busy with Tee-ball and soccer, and Paul and Matthew were in need of constant supervision and attention. Life was full. Sometimes to overflowing.

We had also moved into a new home that we built the year before Cate was born. There was still no lawn! Our mudroom was properly named. The boys loved watching the construction workers still building nearby. They had dump trucks and cement mixing trucks and cranes. They had access to water. In order to save all the established trees in the backyard we had to have several truckloads of fill dumped off. Every possible evening for two or three weeks, both Mark and I, wheel-barrowed it all over our property behind the house. The kids played ‘King of the Hill’ and “working mans”. We couldn’t spread that dirt fast enough because dust was blowing through the screens and open doors constantly. The three boys were filthy.  Our driveway and walkway were not done either, so gravel was finding ways to end up everywhere inside their clothes and shoes and the house. It’s a good thing I’m partial to little boys.
The big day finally arrived. Besides our hopes and prayers for Caitlyn, Mark and I were in desperate need of a break from it all. We had never been to Europe. In fact, neither of us had ever even flown. (I was nervous, but feeling pretty safe with the likes of Father DiOrio on board and praying for our safety!) The flight to Lourdes was almost eight hours. The two of us passed Catie back and forth for the duration. Mark dozed for twenty minutes or so, I didn’t catch a wink. When we landed at the tiny Lourdes airport many of our fellow passengers on our charter flight looked wide awake and ready to explore. Quite a few were immediately joining a tour to see where St. Bernadette lived and went to church. Not us! We couldn’t make it to our ‘Hotel Christ Roi’ (Christ the King) fast enough.

When we finally arrived in our room, there was no crib set up. The two of us were in full zombie mode so we quickly made a bed on the floor with blankets and pillows. Within minutes, all of us were in dreamland. Suddenly, two French maids burst in without knocking. They were loud and dramatic, with arms flailing this way and that. They were also seemingly disinterested in the fact that Mark and I were in bed together. Thankfully, we were decent, but, really? The French don’t knock?

 

“Oh cher! Regardez la petite fille!” (Oh dear. Look at the baby girl!) They moved closer to Catie and bent down, “Comme elle est mignonne!” (How cute she is!) “Elle a besoin d’un berceau.” (She needs a crib.)
They nodded to us. “Au revoir. Nous serons de retour.” (Goodbye. We’ll be back.)
Mark, sitting up to do a reality check, muttered “What the hell was that?”
I interpreted the invasion for him. We cracked up. “It could have been a lot worse!”

Since we were awake, we decided to head down to the Grotto. It was a short distance away. The town of Lourdes is unique. It’s quaint, with old stone and stucco buildings, many cobblestone streets, window boxes overflowing with flowers, and special “carts” galore being pushed by nurses and other volunteers bringing the sick and disabled to the baths. Everyone there, besides the locals, who run the hotels and shops, is a pilgrim. Many are “malades” (sick people). The rest are either loved ones or nurses or doctors. These malades are treated like rock stars. There is a red strip down the main roads in town reserved especially for those in wheel chairs seeking healing. Cars are NOT the priority. People are almost all friendly, courteous, helpful and praying. I’ve described it before as “the world in reverse”. Total respect and deference are given to the “poor in body, mind and spirit”. The “beautiful people” have to get over themselves while visiting Lourdes.

After about a ten-minute walk, with Catie peeking out of her carrier on her Daddy’s shoulders, we arrived at the entrance to the shrine. We had no sooner passed through the gates when Mark and I looked at each other in astonishment. It was as if we’d passed through a “force field”.
“Irish, did you feel that?”
“I did. Wow! God is definitely in here.” We entered the “domain” many times during that week we were there, but never again did we feel that astonishing Presence of holiness, grace, love and power that greeted us the first day. That was our welcome from the Blessed Mother and her Son.
We made our way past the basilica and headed straight for the baths. There were separate lines for men and women. The rooms were entirely made of stone. There was a large ante-room where you undressed to your slip. Then volunteers from all over the world and France wrapped you in a blue “shroud” (like a large towel). Two French women then escorted you by each hand into the baths. They move you rather quickly (I believe this is because the water is ICY cold!) while reciting the ‘Hail Mary’ in French as you submerge in the narrow pool as deeply as you want. The mountain fed spring shocked me for an instant. My body actually shuddered from the freezing cold holy water. But then, it’s as if you’re lifted up and filled with a heavenly peace.

As you exit, you just remove the shroud and don your clothing. There are no available towels. There is no need for them. Everyone is instantly dry. When I went in, a volunteer held Caitlyn. After I dressed, they brought Catie to a small pool off to the side. Her limbs flailed when her little nine-month-old body entered the frigid water. Once she was out, she fell deeply asleep. We went back every day that week.

Near the baths there are many faucets where pilgrims can collect holy water to drink and to bottle. Everywhere you walked people were reciting the rosary. Prayers for Our Lady’s intercession were ascending in Italian, Spanish, Vietnamese, Filipino, English, . . .  . you name it.  We briefly entered the basilica and went upstairs where there are nuns who pray constantly.  The atmosphere there was charged from the ongoing adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.  We were so blessed to be within this precious, holy shrine.
We left  the domain and visited some shops as we headed back to the hotel for a bite to eat. Two couples from Yonkers, N.Y. were assigned to the same table as us.  They were long-time friends. Bill and Margaret Finneran had come because Bill, a lawyer, and one-time Grand Marshall of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade, had suffered a stroke. The other couple, Richard and Irene Gill, came because they wanted to give thanks for the healing of liver cancer Irene had received through the intercession of Father DiOrio five years previously. These four New “Yawkers” were hilarious. Richard was always asking to hold Catie. Then he’d sit her on the edge of the table and make her little legs kick up and down to him singing the classic Sinatra song “New York, New York”. Cate loved it. He also brought her large pretzel sticks to teeth on at every meal, because as he put it, she’s a “New Yawker”. She likes them. Cate did love both Richard and his pretzels.
The food at the hotel was delicious and the place was quite elegant. However, because we all had assigned tables, they kept the same cloth napkins on the tables for the three daily meals. But somehow, apparently unbeknownst to the waitresses and waiters, they seemed to migrate around the table after each meal.
One lunchtime Bill said “I think this might be your napkin Richard, because I KNOW I wasn’t wearing lipstick at breakfast.” The napkin thing became the big joke among us. Irene bought a bag of paper napkins downtown and was secretly passing them around under the table. We had so many laughs as we guessed who would get what cloth at the next meal. Gotta love New Yorkers.
Every night there was a Eucharistic procession through the shrine. Everyone held a candle and they sang Ave Maria. At each “Ave”, every pilgrim raised their candle to the sky. Only one of us could hold a candle because the other one held Catie, so with each “Ave” we lifted her to the heavens. The faith and pain present there were equally palpable. There was a mother of five young children on our pilgrimage. She was there with her husband. He looked so deeply sad and frightened as he cared for the love of his life, a gorgeous black haired, blue-eyed young woman, who had advanced Lou Gehrig’s disease. We also spent quite a bit of time with Monica and Nolan, a middle-aged couple from the Midwest. Nolan had leukemia and passed away a few months after we returned home.
It wasn’t all pious or sad or serious. There was faith and fear and hope, all alternating at any point in time within and amongst all of us. Each pilgrim had come there for a serious reason.  That said, in-between the tears and prayers there was also FUN and good French food, wine and solidarity.

On the last day, our New Yorker friends had a gift for Cate.  They had bought it a few days earlier while we were all on a little side trip to neighboring Spain.  It was a hand woven little blue bib with a front pocket.  Inside the pocket was Catie’s very own little napkin.  I still have it.

 

 

We began to go to other healing Masses in our area and elsewhere. I craved the peace they gave to us. I needed to know the date of the next one that was coming up, so I had something uplifting to anticipate.  Sometimes after a service, Caitlyn would act as if she’d been given a shot of adrenaline. It was amazing to both of us and also to the professionals that worked with Catie. What oftentimes happened was that she would be super alert and energized immediately after being blessed.  Then over the next several days it would gradually diminish.  Mark and I were learning so much from speaking with other people we were meeting.  They told us remarkable testimonies of their healings and how God had worked in their lives and changed both them and oftentimes their circumstances. Most of the services were led by priests, but also nuns and lay people. Some of the priests were great teachers and preachers, as well as, healers. I couldn’t get enough.

I was also buying books and tapes by the carload. One subject that intrigued me was how the Lord might speak to someone in their dreams. Dreams had always fascinated me. In fact, way back in tenth grade, I did my first talk in Speech class on dreams. After attending several healing services, I had a powerful dream that more or less showed me clearly what God had been doing in my life.

The dream began with me sitting in the backseat (without a seatbelt) of a large black sedan driven by a hitman. It was nighttime and I was being flung all over the seat and floor as the car careened down streets, around corners, and up and down hills. Finally, the car stopped by a restaurant.  Gangsters surrounded the car brandishing guns. It was the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre (I had found out I was expecting Catie on Valentine’s Day.) I interpreted it to mean that my life had seemed dark and hopeless since the day of her frightening birth. We had all been robbed, especially Catie.  The normalcy of both Cate’s life and the rest of our family had been murdered, and there were dark and destructive forces shoving me around.  Threatening me.

Then the scene changed and I found myself sitting on a chair in the recreation (re-creation) room of a prison watching a movie on a large white screen.  There was a projector above me that was shining light into the room and putting forth bright images. Everything in the dream was gray except the screen and the light. My take on this was that as I learned more about God and got to know Him in a deeper way, I was being slowly restored (re-created).  Life still seemed bleak, and although still imprisoned in fear, I was looking at my life, and life in general, from a new vantage point.

The scene changed a third time. Now I was a man dressed in camouflage, strapped in a wheelchair that was plunging down the quad area of Oneonta State (where I had attended for two years). The entire area (which was in reality all concrete) was a raging rapid, but not frightening, more like an adventurous water slide. People were trying to get in front of me to stop me, but I was waving my arms wildly to push them out of my way forward. The sun was shining. The skies were blue. I was wounded, but still fighting, and being led forward by healing waters, into the light.

I found this all so beautiful. God was speaking to me in my dreams, in rich, poetic images that were so personal, specific and full of depth in their meaning. The crime of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre (Catie’s traumatic birth) had brought me from utter darkness to a kind of prison. But through the grace of God I had now been given hope and a whole  new perspective on things. The power of the Spirit had freed me and brought me into the light, even though I was still deeply wounded, and unable to move forward on my own, I had found a path filled with healing.

We went to more of Father DiOrio’s services in Worcester. He was also coming to Albany, N. Y. to the “Egg” at our Empire State Plaza several times a year. At our third service, Father said to me “Isn’t she better yet?” I responded “She’s doing pretty well, but still has problems.” We left that day with a flyer containing all the information about Father’s August pilgrimage to Lourdes, France. I wanted to go. Mark was skeptical that we’d be able to swing it financially, but I insisted we should pray about it, and try to make it come together. Money was extremely tight with my unexpected (and forced) decision to leave my job and concentrate on the needs of Catie and the rest of us. Then there was also the question of who would watch our boys for the week.

With each service and blessing by Father we all felt more faith-filled and just generally better. I would still sob deeply each and every time I rested in the Spirit, but I was being healed of so much bottled up fear and pain.

The morning after this particular healing service in Worcester (where I had picked up the pilgrimage flyer), I was full of joy from the blessing I had received the previous day.  It was the most light-hearted I’d been in months. The kids were in the family room watching cartoons and playing quietly and I was cleaning up the kitchen table after breakfast. While wiping up milk and Cheerios from the end of the table, standing near the basement door, I suddenly heard a voice.  It was out loud, but within my head.  “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”  That was it.  Clear.  Audible only to me.

I set the dish cloth down on the table and stood there stunned. Instantly, I knew that the “blessing” was that I had to turn to God completely because there was no one, no surgery, no medication, no therapy that could truly help either Caitlyn or the rest of us. I went to the phone and called Carol, the woman who had organized the first bus trip.
“Carol, guess what I just “thought” of?” I knew I hadn’t “thought” of it, but I also didn’t know quite how to characterize what I’d experienced. I told Carol exactly what had happened.
“That’s beautiful Pat!”  I remember thinking “Yeah . . . . what was it?”
All day I pondered what had occurred. I knew something unusual and important had happened but I hadn’t a clue as to exactly what it was. Well . . .. the very next day, while reading one of my many new books, I came across the term “inner locution”.  It’s meaning is defined as something like this:
“An interior locution is a mystical concept used by various religions. An interior locution is a form of private revelation, but is distinct from an apparition, or religious vision. An interior locution may be defined as “A supernatural communication to the ear, imagination, or directly to the intellect.”
That was it! I had experienced an “inner locution”. I heard an interior voice aloud within me and I was given the meaning of what it was I was receiving. Wow!! All these months I’d been yelling out “Why this?” “Why that? “What’s the point? “God was speaking to me in so many ways. He was communicating through scripture, other people, books and tapes, dreams, charisms, and now through an “inner locution”. It was as if I was given both new eye glasses and the ability to comprehend new languages.  Life was coming into  sharper focus.  The veil between heaven and earth would sometimes give me a peek.  It meant everything.  These experiences told me that there was meaning and purpose in the events that were unfolding.  God was and is so good.

We did the math and we could afford for one of us to go to Lourdes with Catie (She was almost free!). That idea was not even conceivable to either of us. It would be too much to physically and emotionally handle Cate and everything else alone. Besides, we both felt it should be shared by us as a couple, as parents. We stepped out in faith and paid a deposit, hoping and praying for the money we lacked. I told my Mom we were thinking of going.  She said she’d watch the boys.

Next thing we knew, my Aunt Julie and Uncle Al were throwing a large family picnic for us at their home in Poughkeepsie. Many of my aunts and uncles, and cousins were there. (I come from a large family. My mother was one of six.  I have five siblings and there were thirty grandchildren on this side of the family too.) We were moved by the outpouring of support and generosity to us. We now had more than enough to go on pilgrimage that August. Wow!  We were thrilled.
Back then New York City was crime ridden. If you left your car in a parking lot for even a few hours, much less a week, there was a good chance it would be “stripped”. My youngest brother Danny was working in NYC and he said “Look, I’ll drive you to JFK in your car and bring it back to Mom and Dad’s so it’s safe.” We agreed.
When the big day arrived, we all piled into our little Dodge Aries wagon. Dan left us off at the airport and headed home. After driving several miles, the car began to overheat. Danny abruptly pulled to the side of the road on an exit ramp off of a nearby expressway in a famously dangerous neighborhood close to the airport. He says “I was ready to kill you guys as I’m thinking “No good deed goes unpunished!” Dan threw open the hood, and hot steam poured out furiously.

As Danny tells it, “Before I could even swear about you two leaving me stranded with a dead car, I glanced off to the side, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a gallon jug of water.  A JUG of WATER just sitting there!” Dan described it as “Doot, doot, doot, doot . . .. doot . . . . ” – like he had entered the “Twilight Zone”. He poured the water in the radiator and made it safely back home.

“Was it Lourdes water, Danny?!”

“I believe it was.”

The next afternoon Marianne showed up at my door. She hugged me and handed me another book by Francis Mac Nutt, The Prayer That Heals – Prayer in the Family. It was about the concept of “soaking prayer” – meaning that oftentimes we have to hunker down and intercede for an extended period. The grace of healing was not a cheap commodity that just happened, but rather, it was about relationship with the Lord and with others. Forgiveness was a HUGE element of healing, and the main theme of all I read. God is Love and unforgiveness was a refusal to extend love. I was learning more every day about how Jesus healed, who he healed and all kinds of related topics, like the power of the sacraments with regard to healing. After everyone went to bed I’d curl up with a cup of tea and a book on healing. I had to pump myself up with faith, hope and love in order to carry on with any joy or peace at all. Daily life was a struggle. I read for hours nightly until fatigue took over. During the day I played tapes on healing and praise music and other aspects of the Faith that Marianne, my Aunt Kay, my Uncle George (a deacon) and others gave me. It was as if I was entering an entirely new and different world. A world where it was normal and natural to talk to God and to expect responses of all sorts back in return. God was intimately involved and interested in the details of our lives.

So it wasn’t all rules and restrictions. A giant “Gotcha” kind of thing. He was not only alive and here. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’d heard that. I prayed. I believed in God. But I guess I never NEEDED Him with such desperation, such desire and such urgency. Apparently, our Lord wanted to communicate and interact with each and every one of us. He had my full attention because He had given me a child who was very broken and I couldn’t believe a loving Father would want that. I mean, seriously?! If Catie’s earthly, biological father had either caused her injuries or neglected to provide the best available medical care necessary, he’d be in jail. Yet people repeatedly told me “It’s God’s will. You have to accept your cross.” First of all, why would God either cause or want a baby to suffer violent seizures and have limbs that wouldn’t work, to give ME a cross? Stupid. Cruel. I wanted to jump in wholeheartedly and see who He was and what He wanted. I concluded if He was a Father, whose name was Love, who gave us both His Son and His Holy Spirit, he was not wanting us to sit around thinking he ignored, even enjoyed seeing sick babies and broken-hearted mothers and fathers, if it made them better people. That cruelty, impotency, or indifference were what he had to offer his children. So why were there so many hurting people? Good people.
A funny thing was happening to me. Ever since I’d been prayed over by Bruce and Patti, Father McCoy and now Marianne, Grace and Father Donnelly, my faith had ignited. Scripture had become so alive it seemed to jump off the page and speak to my heart as never before. I couldn’t stop talking about God and all I was learning about him. I was probably sounding like a nut trying to cope with a difficult situation. (My brother Chris said “What’s with Patty? She sounds like she’s high.”) Be that as it may, I was never more rational and committed to finding Truth. I had no desire to fool myself. I just wanted to get to know this Lord I had heard about, read about, and even somewhat engaged with. I wanted to see his POWER. Right here. Right now.
With all this reading about unforgiveness, I was racking my brain trying to think who I needed to forgive. With hindsight I was quite out-of-touch with the countless little resentments and grudges I had tucked away deep within my heart for over thirty-one years. All I could come up with was an old neighbor and friend who had begun to pull away from me years ago. I’ll call her Ally. Her behavior changed drastically and within a very short time of that she moved away. I’d heard she remarried. She now had a new name and I didn’t know where she lived. I so wanted to tell her I was sorry for being angry at her, but had no idea how to find her. Well . . . apparently God knew the sincerity of my heart because a few days later I got a random call from Ally. She said “Pat, for some reason you’ve been on my mind for days. I decided to call you to explain why I withdrew from our relationship and moved away without a goodbye.” She then told me that “Robert” (her husband) had left her and their children to enter into a homosexual relationship. She was obviously shocked and distraught and could not yet speak about it. I learned a HUGE lesson that day. God doesn’t care much for lip service and pretense, but when you are sincere and you NEED him because there’s no way you can do something. . .. He will come through for you.

My Uncle George, an ordained deacon, baptized Caitlyn.  The ceremony was lovely and so personal.  I remember standing there , holding my daughter, and being overwhelmed with fear about her future.  At the same time, I was hoping that this sacrament would strengthen and heal her.  Catie looked adorable and was so animated and happy, as were the boys.  I remember Paul asking me “Why is George wearing a dress and reading out of that big, giant book?” The entire family came and we celebrated back at the house all afternoon.  I can see the fear in my eyes in this picture below with Mark’s sister, Carol and my sister, Terry (holding Caitlyn).

After setting things right with Ally I would realize that I was holding more animosity toward Dr. C. than I fully understood. One day, feeling overwhelmed with four little ones under six, countless fears over Catie, a gazillion appointments, little sleep, and the onset of seizures, (Infantile Spasms which usually indicated a poor prognosis), I had a nuclear meltdown. Mark and I were upstairs in our bedroom and I began sobbing and railing about all of it. Suddenly I got up and went for the phone yelling out “I’m going to call that man and tell him “Every time you look at your granddaughter Caitlin, you think about what you did to MY CAITLYN!”. Mark lunged towards me with horror in his eyes. “Irish?! What are you doing?” I slammed the phone down and threw myself on the bed sobbing with a ferocity that scared even me. I truly never would have done that, but I had to say something so strong and powerful to release what I’d been denying and holding in for months.

For a month or so, I’d been attending a bible study. The elderly, sweet woman who led it was a proponent of praying Scripture. She had taught us that a powerful way to forgive was to say out loud the words Jesus spoke from the cross (Thelma would also say to personalize the passage with a name or the gender of who you were praying for). The morning and afternoon after my emotional outburst, I went about cooking, cleaning, dealing with kids, etc., but in between, very softly, I prayed that verse hundreds of times. I began with teeth clenched and emphasis on certain words. “Forgive Him Father, HE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT HE WAS DOING!!!!” By late afternoon my voice and heart were soft. “Forgive him Father, he didn’t know what he was doing.” I was at peace.

The day of the bus trip to Father DiOrio’s healing service in Worcester, Ma. Finally arrived. Mark and I got up at about five in the morning. We had to drop off each boy with a different friend for the day. The bus ride was full of middle-aged charismatics and what seemed like “holy-rollers” to us. Praise songs went on for hours. Mark and I were a little uncomfortable but we felt the Holy Spirit, were treated with overflowing kindness, generosity, and love and we wanted to see it through. To explore this movement within the Church if it could help Cate and us. And it already had brought us great comfort. The trip was about two and a half hours or so, and upon arriving, we all flooded into the huge auditorium. Father preached, called out healings, and prayed over people for something like five or six hours! I’d been in and out of the dingy ladies’ room nursing Catie, changing her diapers and giving her medicine, all day.  I was beginning to unravel somewhat as Father was finishing up the service with a promise to anoint everyone who wanted prayer. The three of us were about ten rows back from where he was praying and I dreaded waiting that much longer. I was tearing up at the thought of another hour or so standing there, holding my baby, even though Cate was doing well. An usher saw my expression and teary eyes and said “Don’t worry dear. He’ll bless your baby.”
I answered “I know. I’m just so tired.”
With that, the lines parted like the Red Sea and Father made eye contact with me (Although he also looked to be both here, and simultaneously, also in heaven.) as he began to walk my way.
He came to Catie and closed his eyes as he laid hands on her. When he opened his eyes, he said “Something is happening with this baby. I think she’s healed.” Catie’s thumb dropped out of her mouth and she went “out in the Spirit”. He then blessed me and I began to go down. I went halfway! I was leaning backward almost parallel with the floor, holding Cate, when the words he said alarmed me. “THINK??!!” A lady came and took Catie out of my arms and I was led a few feet away to lie across several empty chairs. It was as if I was enveloped in a thick cloud of peace. I trusted Cate was OK and relaxed in the Spirit.
On the bus ride home, most people were celebrating that Catie was “healed”. I was not convinced. Think? He thinks? I wrote to him and got a response from his office saying that “Father says what the Spirit reveals to him.” They added to continue praying for our girl, for Scripture says “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)
Catie’s CAT scan following birth had been grossly abnormal. However, that can sometimes happen with infants deprived of oxygen for minutes (even quite a few), and they still have normal outcomes. We were scheduled to have a second scan at six months of age that would determine whether or not the damage was permanent. The day had arrived. I was dreading it because I KNEW Cate’s was still going to be bad. She had had a deteriorated umbilical cord and placenta, so I knew that meant she was compromised for an extended time period. And then with the emerging left hemiparesis and now Infantile Spasms, there was seemingly no doubt that she lost brain volume. (That said, I was still praying and hoping for the best outcome for Catie.)

I dressed Cate in her finest as I did for every appointment. She had on a pink, dotted Swiss dress, with a frilly, ruffled diaper cover, lacey socks, patent leather shoes and that adorable little face and body of hers. We pulled into the parking lot of St. Peter’s and I got out of the car, and paused for a moment before I turned to close my door. I prayed “St. Therese please be with me. I need you.” I lifted Catie out of her car seat, and turned to close the door, holding her.
About fifty feet away, I saw a nun waving wildly at me, as if to get my attention.
“You have a beautiful baby!” She yelled loudly.
Feeling a little stunned I responded, “Thank you!”
“Is she sick?”
“Yes. She’s having a CAT scan.”
“Well I’ll pray for her dear.” She turned forward and her other hand was holding a bouquet of pink roses.
Peace washed over me like a waterfall. “Mark! Did you see?!”
“My God, yes.”

I went into that CAT scan testing area floating on air. I was joking with the staff and laughing at everything. Catie wouldn’t go to sleep with the first dose of sedation. They had to give her a double dose. The scan was only minutes but Mark was anxious to get back to work. He’d been taking time off to go to every major appointment.
“Irish, hurry. Let’s go.”
“I have to find a ladies room first.” I headed toward the rest room, hugging the wall, holding Cate. She was as limp as a ragdoll from all the medicine. As I rounded the corner, I bumped right into Dr. C. I mean we were nose to nose. He looked at Catie and all the color drained from his face. His devastation was readily apparent.
I reached out, touched his hand, and said “It’s not as bad as it looks. She just had a CAT scan and needed a double dose of medication. She’s doing pretty well and Father Di Orio thinks she is receiving healing.”
“Oh good. We’ll hold onto that.”
I was comforting him. I had totally forgiven him. I never went back to blaming him. We were both free.

 

It was time to see Dr. Rosenblum again. This second appointment was at the Center for Disability Services in Albany. We pulled into the parking lot as the school busses were unloading to begin the school day. I was overwhelmed with the enormity and severity of disabilities of the people disembarking for school and treatment there. Everyone seemed to lack control over their own bodies and/or minds. Nothing seemed normal, average or fully functioning and status quo. Little babies and children and adults were either being hoisted off of the busses in some type of fancy wheelchair or other kids were being assisted with walkers, gait trainers or crutches. One precious little guy was carried off and placed in a small red wooden wagon. That classic Radio Flyer was the only semblance of normalcy I saw.  I liked that.
Children had heads that were enormous from hydrocephalus, legs and arms withered from hundreds of varied congenital or genetic abnormalities. There were tubes, oxygen tanks, pillows, straps, and dozens of communication devices. It seemed everyone needed an assistant and lots of equipment. The huge double automatic doors at the entrance opened wide and slowly. They remained agape for a very long time because nothing, and no one, moved about fluidly or easily. I had seen many similar people like the ones before me that day, but never en masse like this.  The impact was exponential. Mark’s eyes searched mine as if to make sure we were really seeing all this, and we were really needing to bring our child here.  What would her life be like?
We got to the waiting area by the physician’s offices. A peppy young nurse came out almost immediately and fawned all over Catie. “She’s adorable. Wait till Dr. Rosenblum sees her. He’s gonna love this little one!” Her enthusiasm was what I needed to keep from falling apart. When she walked away, I did what I always did when I got upset, I picked up Catie and kissed her and squeezed her and drew her sweetness into myself. No matter what we would have to face with her, I loved my daughter as much as I could possibly love her, and we were going to do what she needed and somehow make it through. It was that simple . . .. And that hard.
I was a little nervous about what Dr. Rosenblum was going to tell us because I’d been up at night reading medical books about baby developmental problems. There was this one test where you held the baby up over your head and looked to see symmetry in the ways their extremities extended outward. I noticed Catie’s left side, particularly her left arm was slower and tighter.
Within minutes, Catie’s doctor was in the examining room. He took out his little rubber hammer and tested reflexes, rolled her around in different positions on the table and pulled and pushed her arms and legs. Catie thought it was fun. She was laughing and he was delighting in her. Then he measured her head and looked at me saying “Just keep up the good care. She looks good to me.”
“She does? Is her head size normal?”
It’s maybe a little smaller than it should be but it’s early. I’m not worried about that yet. I’m looking at HER. SHE looks very good. Don’t you Catie?”

She did look good. Cate was full of life, had great eye contact, a quick smile and an easy laugh.  Her muscle tone was not too bad either because we kept the Phenobarbital dose as low as possible.
“What about her left side? I thought I saw increased tone in it. And her eye sometimes turns inward.”
Her eye may very well self-correct with time. Not too concerned about that. Then he re-examined her arm and leg and turned toward me. You’re right. There is some impairment there,” I had never, in all my life, wanted to be wrong more than now.”
The cheery nurse, Kim, waited until he left the room. She was serious now. She stroked Cate’s hair and looked at me with kindness, saying “Dr. Rosenblum has a left hemiparesis too, and he’s a DOCTOR! Try not to worry too much. She’ll do fine.”
So Catie now had a diagnosis. She had cerebral palsy with a left-sided hemiparesis. It was hard to hear. As any mother, I wanted all my kids to have the best possible life, and at the very least, to be spared difficulties like disability. That day we learned that the effects of her birth would indeed be permanent to at least this much of an extent. The ‘wait and see’ game was still on though. Would the seizure disorder be lasting too?

Carol called me regularly to pray with and for Catie and me. She knew I was upset so she asked if she could bring two sisters, Marianne and Grace, along with her to our home. These middle-aged ladies from our parish, were also Pastoral Care ministers at the area hospitals. They were always together, whether visiting shut-ins, going on pilgrimages or workshops to learn about healing prayer, or just gathering to pray for anyone and everyone sick. (As Father Busch put it “Buy one.  Get one free.”) They were also leaders in both the local prayer group, and the Diocesan Service Committee for the Charismatic Renewal. I was anxious to meet them, so we set up a time.
Several days later these three women showed up with Father Donnelly (St. Paul’s pastor emeritus). Father had come along to give Catie the Sacrament of the Sick. Father Elmer was a devout and humorous man of the cloth. Sharp as a tack and full of fun. Since we thought it was important to have Catie anointed, Mark came home for lunch to be there. Father played with the boys, did something to make his hearing aid beep and had them all laughing before he quieted down and administered the sacrament to our girl. The kids took off for the family room to play as he began.

The sacrament lasted several minutes,  Father closed his prayer book, and we all held hands and prepared to end this sacrament with the Lord’s Prayer. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the three boys all showed up, stood behind the sofa and joined in. Matthew’s “baba” was dripping down the back of Father’s black suit as he prayed. I nonchalantly wiped it off with a tissue. Talk about sweet.

At about the same time that I saw Dr. C., we also had our first appointment with Catie’s neurologist, Dr. Rosenblum. He had to squeeze us in his busy schedule, so he had us come to the Capital District Psychiatric Center (CDPC) instead of the Center for Disability Services. It was dark out at five PM in early December. The dark and cold only served to make our journey through the cement parking garage into the weirdly designed labyrinth of varying floors, catwalks and hallways overlooking vast open spaces with funky colored doors and rough concrete walls all the creepier. It was unnerving, and we were already anxious about what Dr. Rosenblum might tell us regarding Cate’s development. As it turned out, the appointment was quite uneventful. He was pleased with her smiling personality, tracking, and overall examination. Phew! We could relax for a little bit and that was a welcome relief. Especially with Christmas coming.

It was our first Christmas with our new baby girl. The kids all believed in Santa Claus and were bursting with anticipation and excitement for his arrival. My Aunt Mary wanted to do something special for us at Christmas because of all the drama and chaos we had experienced with Catie’s birth. The previous year she had hired a “Santa” actor to visit her own grandchildren and she wanted to do the same for us because they had loved it. She wanted to cheer us all up.  We were thrilled. “Santa” called us, gave us a date/time, and told us to buy some gifts for each child and deliver them wrapped and labeled to the nearest Stewart’s store where he would be waiting about a half hour before he came to the house. (This was about a week before Christmas.) The boys were into ‘Masters of the Universe’ figures at the time so I bought them each a couple of their favorites, wrapped them secretly, and Mark dropped them off along with a little doll for Cate as directed.

Mark snuck out while the kids were taking their baths and getting pajamas on for bed. When he returned, he called them down for a story so we could wait for the BIG event. It wasn’t long before we all heard bells ringing outside and the kids jumped up to see what was going on. “It’s Santa” they said in unison. Sure enough he was wandering down the street in front of our home shaking several strands of sleigh bells. The kids were exploding out of their skins, opened the door and yelled hello to him. Santa said “I’m looking for the Roche’s.” “That’s us” they yelled.
Santa was soon in the middle of our living room chatting with the kids, telling them to be good, and finally handing out presents to all. He was fat, and had a great red velvet suit and a quality wig and beard. I was convinced he was the real deal. What fun! However, the minute he left, our six-year-old, Mark said “That guy is not Santa. Santa doesn’t bring presents in a Hefty bag.”

What?! We could not believe our ears. The gig was up for him.

A day or so later Mark got a call from his sister Trisha. She was in a facility in Connecticut receiving treatment for severe depression. This sweet girl had been sexually assaulted while walking along the street near her home in the suburbs years before. The perpetrator had wielded a knife, attacked her, and then drove her back to where he had originally found her earlier. She memorized his license plate number and the man (who had already been imprisoned before for the same crime) was incarcerated again. This terrible tragic crime occurred prior to the establishment of rape crisis centers. Mark’s parents didn’t know quite how to handle it all. Trisha kept saying she didn’t want to talk about it and didn’t want counseling. There was little information on how to deal with it all at that time so they basically followed her lead. She seemed to do well at first. Soon, however, her father had a heart attack and other puzzling symptoms which would stump his doctors for years. Frank was eventually diagnosed with lupus. Then their Mom, Louise, developed breast cancer. Trisha was the one home at the time. She helped with her mother’s care and watched her weaken and suffer, and finally die. Not long after Louise died, Tricia began a downward spiral of depression and substance abuse. She ultimately attempted to take her life, and so, was hospitalized in a place her Dad had researched as being among the best of its kind.

Trisha was on the phone asking Mark if she could spend Christmas with us. Mark bought time and said he’d check on what we had going on with my family. We might be going away, so he’d check and get back to her. When he told me what she wanted, I broke down hysterically. I loved Trisha and we had a very nice relationship, but I didn’t think I had it me to deal with both brain damage and acute depression that Christmas. I felt torn and uneasy, so I prayed for guidance, got the bible, and opened it up randomly. My eyes fell on these lines from Isaiah 58 . . ..
“They seek me day after day, and desire to know my ways, . . ..”
“They ask of me just judgments, they desire to draw near to God.”
“Is this not, rather, the fast that I choose: releasing those bound unjustly, untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed,
breaking off every yoke?

Is it not sharing your bread with the hungry,
bringing the afflicted and the homeless into your house;
Clothing the naked when you see them,
and not turning your back on your own flesh?

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn,
and your wound shall quickly be healed;
Your vindication shall go before you,
and the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard.
Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer,
you shall cry for help, and he will say: “Here I am!”

I started to sob. “Mark, look at this! We have to take her in.” And we did.

It was tough. Trisha was emotionally flattened by the medications she was on. She sat around disheveled, doing little, barely speaking, and looked incredibly sad and lost. There was an oppression, a heaviness, hanging in the air. Mark and I put on our best “game faces” and “celebrated”. Of course, there was real joy watching the boys in their innocence and delight at the magic of Christmas morning. But in between cooking and opening gifts and all the other festivities we were carrying out in our efforts to be “normal”, I’d run upstairs to both nurse Cate and cry. Truth be told, I think we more or less pulled it off. Trisha was heavily medicated and not picking up nuances in our behavior or affect, and the boys were caught up in their toys and treats and fully enjoying themselves. But for Mark and I, much of the day was torturous.

Poor Mark was crushed. He’d lost his mother at fifty when he was just twenty-two, watched his father become ill, withdraw, and then die the previous year at only fifty-seven. And now he watched his sister, a young woman in the prime of life, enduring the brutal aftermath of a sexual assault that began destroying her life at age thirteen because her pain had been buried alive. My good husband was also distraught about his newborn baby daughter . . .. And he constantly told me of his worries about the changes in me.

Catie began In-Home Special Education Services not long after she left the hospital. The people providing these services were all good-hearted and intelligent women. (Cate had only a couple male teachers and therapists her entire life.) It seemed at any point in time we had at least one truly special soul who “got” Cate and knew how to support me in a meaningful way. Dot, Catie’s PT, was our first such gift. I looked forward to her thrice weekly visits.  They were like a balm for my wounded heart. She had a wisdom and a way of “seeing” that always reassured me. This lady saw the beauty of each child she treated no matter what, or how extensive, their disabilities were. I treasured her therapy sessions.
All together we received one hour daily with a teacher, and three hours with PT and ST. OT was just two hours weekly. We arranged that through our insurance privately. I thought Catie needed OT, Dot agreed wholeheartedly, and she recommended an exceptional OTR therapist, Diane. This brilliant little dynamo was worth her weight in gold. She had an ivy league education, was married to a physician (So she had an in-home consultant that often helped us!), and she had extensive post graduate training with leading experts in upper extremity treatment. Diane was in a class by herself.  She was to remain working with Catie off and on, in different capacities, until Cate was twenty-two years old. Sometimes she came weekly, sometimes as a consultant, but this highly skilled/educated woman was a master. I used to tell her she should have her hands insured by Lloyd’s of London. She made such a difference in Cate’s life. I loved her. (Later on she also introduced us to Tina, an exceptional PT, who eventually became a professor and department chairwoman in the PT field at a nearby university.) Our girl had an excellent team.  Catie was doing so well when Diane first began that she remarked “I’ve never treated a child with more potential.”

Oftentimes these professionals doubled or even tripled up their allotted time. They thought there was significant benefit in their working together. When they did so, it in effect, reduced the number of hours of help Catie received per week from thirteen to maybe eight or nine hours. This happened regularly. I was not a fan of too much of that, as it made my workload alone, much heavier because any time another adult was not present to interact with Cate, she was left to her own devices.  I also missed the one-on-one visits with the special ones who could talk about our entire situation, and not just legs, bones, muscles and breath sounds.  Catie was clearly better off at home than being bussed to a large, segregated school in Albany.  But that said, there was a dramatically increased workload for me.  I don’t regret it in the least.  She had a normal infancy at home with her mother (which I needed as much as she did) and siblings, she was never sick from colds and flus, and no one was more motivated than me to stimulate her and help her grow.  But I was tired.

My follow-up visit with my OB Dr. C. was at about six weeks postpartum. I arrived at the office where I was a “regular”, since I’d been a patient there through five pregnancies within seven years at this point.  Everyone knew me well. Marie, the office secretary came running out to see Catie. “Oh, she’s beautiful! What did you name her?” When I said “Caitlyn”, Marie exclaimed “Oh gosh! Same name as Dr. C.’s new granddaughter.”

The nurse brought me into the examining room.  When Dr. C. eventually entered, he immediately looked at me a bit quizzically as if to take my emotional temperature, then he touched Catie’s cheek and asked softly “How’s she doing?”
“Pretty well. But all I hear is that we just have to wait and see. It’s a little scary.” He nodded and turned to get something from the cupboard.
“Her name is Caitlyn. I added.  I understand you have a new granddaughter with the same name.”
“That I do. And she’s a beauty too.”
He was a good person and a good doctor, a devout Catholic, family man and highly regarded professional. I knew all that. I genuinely liked him. I could tell he was worried about Catie. I’m sure he didn’t relish the thought of a possible legal confrontation, but I sincerely believed he was worried on a purely human level, at least as much, if not more. I felt compassion for what he must be feeling.
All I wanted was for Catie to be well. Mark and I had absolutely no desire to sue anybody. Ever. That’s just how we are. And as I’ve said, being part of the medical profession made me sensitive to the risks we all face every day as we try to help people. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a glimmer of resentment about what his care may have done to my little baby and to our entire family. Even if what initially happened to Caitlyn was a purely congenital incident, the fact that he let me go three weeks post due date was less than stellar practice. I’d had a non-stress test the week before her birth and we all (nurse, technician, me) had to do quite a bit of poking and prodding to get Catie to move much. They chalked it up to her being asleep because everything looked “good”, and they scheduled me for a November seventh induction.
My Uncle Leo died in the meantime, and I wanted to attend his wake, so I rescheduled the appointment for November sixth. Had I not done that, Catie would have been a stillbirth. I held my tongue and tried not to project resentment, but there were unsaid questions hanging in the air between us, and we both knew it. The impact of Catie’s injuries affected us as a family on many crucial levels, besides the obvious harm to Cate herself. Her many needs meant that I could not return to work part-time as an RN at Memorial Hospital. (Not if I wanted to meet the needs of my family.) The loss of income was felt deeply. (In fact, I was never able to return to work on a regular basis, largely because of Catie’s many, fluctuating needs and the difficulties associated with finding competent, reliable and trustworthy help.  I had several jobs over the years but I always had to work part-time, have flexibility in my schedule, and then often had to quit rather unexpectantly because of a need or change in Catie’s condition.) It affected Mark and I emotionally. That spilled over to our other kids.

Our “new normal” was all-consuming of our time, attention, finances and energy. We would never be the same. That was the truth. That said, although I don’t believe it was God’s “perfect will” for an innocent baby or the rest of us to have to suffer from this, He “allowed” it to happen for His own unfathomable reasons and the fact that he honors the free will of each of us. Sometimes, He does seem to intervene, even if uninvited to do so. I believe most of us have had the experience of being spared a car accident or some other mishap by what seems to be “Divine” intervention.  God allowed this traumatic birth.
He permitted Catie and our family to have to endure these circumstances. But He didn’t abandon us.

I believe what Scripture says in Romans 8:28 “We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” No one can even remotely know the mind of God, but because of Caitlyn and through Caitlyn, God taught Mark and I, and many others, lessons about Himself. Catie was an “Evangelist Extraordinaire”. People have sometimes teased me that our boys all have biblical names of men who have books in the bible. True enough, but Catie could be included in the ongoing Book of Acts.  Although largely nonverbal throughout her life, she spoke volumes about “the three things that last”, faith, hope and love.

One day I received a call from the elementary school that they wanted to see me regarding Mark’s progress. When I arrived, I was taken to a small conference room where Mrs. Jenne, Mark’s Pre-First teacher (She was an excellent educator and a loving woman.) and Dr. Hess, the school psychologist, were waiting for me. They began to tell me their concerns that Mark’s schoolwork had begun to drop off since early November. I said “Well you know about Catie, right?” They shook their heads sideways. I had asked a neighbor to tell Mrs. Jenne what was going on, but apparently there was some miscommunication and all she had said was that Cate was still in the hospital. The school had no idea how sick she had been and the turmoil we were all facing.
“Well that explains everything!” said Mrs. Jenne. Dr. Hess smiled and agreed. She promised to spend extra time with Mark to help him both catch up, and feel more reassured about everything. She did just that too. All four boys ultimately had this “Teacher’s teacher” for first grade. She was one in a million, and I’ll always feel both affection and gratitude for her kindness, generosity and the good she did for us Roches.

Mark and I worked out a schedule at home so we could provide as much one-on-one stimulation for Cate as possible without neglecting our time spent with the boys. We scheduled Catie’s seizure medication (which made her sleepy) so that she would be awake in the late evening after the boys went to bed. That way we had the early evening to spend with them and meet their needs. Then, once they were in bed, we got out the ‘Baby Exercise Book’, our giant beach ball, and whatever toys or household/therapeutic items that provided interesting and functional stimulation for  Catie’s current abilities.

Her muscle tone was generally low, in part because of the Phenobarbital, but also from her neurological injuries. We worked diligently to improve upon that. I came up with an idea to utilize our queen size camping mattress.  When we applied light pressure near her, the mattress would help facilitate Cate’s turning and rolling over.  We also brought a hard plastic kiddie pool inside and then placed all kinds of different things within it to provide varying textures and sensations for Catie. We filled it with dried up leaves from the lawn, silk fabric, a mink coat. You name it Catie played in it or on it. And then sometimes Mark, I, or the boys pulled her around in the pool or on a little plastic sled, throughout the downstairs.  We had a blast with her and she laughed and loved it. I also made flash cards of photos and magazine pictures, we did all the busy box maneuvers  with her until she mastered them, stacked blocks, read books. Our house was FULL of toys and props and things that dangled from light fixtures and doorknobs . . . . Cate was very passive as her expressive abilities, in both large and small motor (and also speech) were significantly impaired.  Her receptive skills were much better.  There was a sparkle in her eyes, and when we “brought the world to her”, she soaked it all up like a sponge.  So, that’s what we did!  As the saying goes “If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.”

The remaining days in the hospital were all heading in the right direction. Her medical care was excellent. Catie was nursing strongly, gaining weight, tracking well visually. Her hearing seemed fine, and considering she was on Phenobarbital, her muscle tone and head control were fair. When I fed her, she kept her gaze right on me. As much as we knew all the risks and possibilities, we were grateful for her current progress and we dared to hope.

Our pastor, Father Brucker showed up late on Saturday evening, after Mass, to pray with Caitlyn. Mark had called him to come and he didn’t hesitate to drive the thirty minutes each way at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. He handed me a vial of Lourdes water saying he had great faith in the prayers of the Blessed Mother. Weeks later, we learned that he had requested prayers for Cate from the pulpit at all the masses he said the weekend after she was born. Little did we know just how significant a role both Father and Lourdes would play in Catie’s life.

Back in those days my prayers were frequently to St. Therese of Lisieux. She is a powerful saint, in fact she’s a ‘Doctor of the Church’. Her symbol is a rose. So often when she intercedes for people, they receive a rose indicating that their prayer has been heard and answered by the Lord. Well I was praying to her back then and there were two incidences (Another powerful one comes six months later.) that seemed to be answers to my heartfelt prayers for Catie.
By about day eight at St. Peter’s the doctors started to tell me that the insurance companies wanted to discharge me ahead of Cate because I was doing well and they couldn’t justify my continued hospitalization care. I did NOT want to leave her, but I soon realized I had little choice. I pumped my breasts, froze milk and filled the freezer there with food for her in my absence. I also pumped at home. The plan was to spend as much time as I could possibly arrange at the hospital every day. My Mom agreed to stay with our boys until Catie came home so Mark could work and I could be with Catie.

As part of the transitional care, we also met the neurologist who would follow up with Cate upon discharge and began to set up multiple appointments with needed therapists and specialists. The pediatric neurologist was Dr. Rosenblum. (Rose-in-bloom) We had to smile upon hearing that. He wanted Catie to take a forty five minute bus ride to the Center for Disability Services for education and therapy. They were the “best” he explained. I respectfully answered that I was sure they were wonderful, but that no helpless, needy baby of mine was going on a bus with strangers, just weeks after birth because in my mind, the “best” place for Catie was with ME. He smiled and we agreed on home-based services which included PT, OT, ST and a teacher. We had follow-up medical appointments with an orthopedist, a hand specialist, neurologist, pediatrician, developmental specialist and an ophthalmologist. There were also appointments for lab work, EEG’s, social work, Albany Medical Center’s Newborn Follow-up Program, and county visiting nurses, in addition to the daily educational and therapy services.

Day nine, one of the nurses came to me and said “Why don’t you bring some of the samples you’ll be receiving home with you now. It’ll make things much easier when you leave with Caitlyn.” I agreed and she handed me a tall white plastic bad full of diapers, wipes, formula, and baby lotions and potions. When I turned the bag around it was covered with pink roses dripping in dew drops (that resembled tears). The bag said “This is for YOU Mommy!” It may sound silly, completely meaningless or coincidental to others, but for me it seemed St. Therese was letting me know she was with us and acknowledging our pain. (I still have the bag.) Being wheeled out of St. Peter’s with empty arms was a horrible feeling, but as I hugged that bag, I felt a little better and hopeful that we had friends in high places looking out for us.  As we left St. Peter’s Hospital we both decided we were hungry and a good old fashioned dose of junk food was in order.  We pulled into Burger King feeling rather depressed at our baby still alone in the hospital.  As we entered the restaurant we saw someone jump up and start waving wildly at us.  It was Jo-Jo!!  We laughed until we cried.  Our new friend was happy to see us and report that little Dayquana was coming along nicely.  Mark and I sent our love home to Shirelle and Grandmother.  We all shared a bond of faith, hope and love.

Finally, on November twentieth, just two days before Thanksgiving, Cate was strong enough to go home and face life with her three big brothers. My mother had to leave right away as she’d been there for weeks. Mark and I were on our own with four kids under six years of age and a fragile, needy, at-risk newborn. Thanksgiving was a blur. I cooked a turkey breast and the main fixings. Bought pies and called it done. Cate was receiving Phenobarbital and Dilantin round the clock. Every two hours she alternated between them. (The nurses had warned us to be sure to shake the Dilantin VERY thoroughly because it settled quickly. Years before a mother had just drawn up the medication without shaking the bottle and her baby had died. We were super careful. We were SUPER SCARED.) Of course, Cate seemed to like to nurse on the off-in between hours. Mark and I could have won Oscars for leading roles in Night of the Living Dead. We were zombies without a doubt. I don’t know how he worked every day. But my husband is a rock. (Roche means rock!) This lasted six weeks until we could finally discontinue the Dilantin because, by then, Catie had been seizure free since the night of her birth. At this point we only had to get up every four hours (not counting feedings). Luckily neighbors and friends had filled our freezer with food so at least I had very little cooking to do.

Our six-year-old, Mark, was very scared. He seemed to fear Catie would die. He remembered my late miscarriage the year before and he had recently lost his beloved “Grampy” (Mark’s dad). Whenever I tried to talk with him, he’d fill up with tears and say “I’m not scared.” It broke my heart. Paul, four, was acting out somewhat. My take on that was that he didn’t understand the changes in me. I had spent much time playing with him before and now Catie required so much constant attention and care. It seemed that she was either nursing, taking medications, at some medical appointment or due for her follow-up infant stimulation and exercises, etc. Things were completely different. Life as we had known it, was over. Matthew, at sixteen months, was oblivious to much of it. Our neighbor invited him over almost daily to play with his friend “Waura” (Laura). For that I’ll always be grateful because he was experiencing normalcy and it made me feel his needs were well taken care of. Normal. That was what we strove for. I was dancing as fast as I could. We did everything possible to minimize Catie’s injuries and maximize her potential. Both Mark and I went about each day with as much effort and thought as possible to, hopefully, ensure, that Cate and the boys flourished. We tried our best to meet the needs of all four kids. There was precious little time left over for each other and ourselves individually.

Exhausted, grieving, terrified and overwhelmed are words that could describe me. This was before answering machines, call waiting, emails and caller ID. The phone rang off the wall incessantly. For weeks, maybe months, I tried to repeat the gory details and speak to everyone. But I didn’t have the time and the constant rehashing of it all kept me continually fearful and on edge. My solution was to take the phone off the hook for hours on end almost daily. After the several minutes of loud beeping there was precious silence. No one was asking “Will she be ok?”, “Will she always have seizures?”, “Are you going to sue?”, “Are you going to try to have more kids?”. And then there were the well-meaning, horrendous statements . . . “So- and-So” had a baby with mental retardation and she is the light of their life.”, “It’s God’s will.”, “He won’t give you more than you can handle.” They meant well, and some of the remarks are even true on a certain level. . .. but trust me, they didn’t help. AT ALL.

Like every mother I wanted my children to be healthy and whole. I didn’t like my life ‘out there’ for all to psycho-analyze. I saw the looks, the “How is she doing?” stares. Again. Well-meaning but so unwanted and invasive.
Days were frantically busy. I had no help. Nursing. Diapers times two. Bedwetting times four. Laundry. And the endless appointments! Mark had to get ready for school and catch the bus. Life was full and over-flowing. The boys loved their sweet new sister. One day I went in to find a Tonka truck in the bassinette with Cate. (Paul loved construction equipment as there was so much development going on in our neighborhood. He was sharing his most precious possession with Catie. I melted.) Mark bought little tiny Teddy bears at the school store for his new sister. He was so proud and generous. And Matthew would bring me burp cloths when Cate was crying. He’d say “Catie wants to do goobas.” (We still refer to breast feeding as “doing goobas”!) It was bittersweet. I took all the love and enjoyment I could from each child, and of course Mark, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that a dark cloud hovered over me. Mark would frequently say “Irish, I’m worried about Catie, but I feel like I’m losing you too.” I was doing my best to fight through it all but I was close to the edge of despair and grief.

Nights, in-between meds and nursing, were often spent either crying in the shower or curled up on our bathroom floor in a fetal position sobbing so as not to wake Mark. For one thing I was utterly exhausted from sleep deprivation, but Catie’s birth and medical problems had thrown me into a full-blown spiritual crisis. If it weren’t for the love of my husband and those precious kids who needed me so much, I would have collapsed under it all. I grieved Caitlyn’s not having a normal birth and just being able to enjoy my only daughter. I grieved how it all harmed my joy with my husband and boys too. I had discovered that the “worst” can happen in this life. That some things you can’t “fix”.

My constant prayer was “HELP!”. It would be months before, in retrospect, I saw God’s hands all over our lives.