On Wednesday, woke up the girls, February fifth, felt so impossible. They had just come back from the swish night of their lives, a Washington eyes game. It was an academe night, and the only reason I let them go was because they promised they had still go to academe the coming day no matter what. Kingsley coming downstairs, her legs were hurt. I laughed and asked why. Her legs? Presumably from all the jumping and dancing, she said.
Indeed, though she looked bad, she never asked to stay home. That is just who Kinsley was strong. By eleven a.m., the academy called. She had a fever, headache, and was throwing up. The coming day, she tested positive for influenza B. We were given Tamiflu and told to manage the fever with Tylenol and ibuprofen. We have dealt with sickness before with five youths in the house, so I disinfected everything and kept Kinsley segregated. On Sunday, she was back to herself, laughing, flipping off the lounge, and making Valentines with her family at the kitchen table. But early Monday morning, everything changed. Around six a.m., she came to my bed in tears.
I could feel pain in my entire body. Kinsley no way cried, no way complained. That is when I knew commodity was seriously wrong. One friend of mine asked me to stay careful. She knew someone who had failed from the flu. That made me sweat. I got her a pediatrician appointment that afterlife. By also, she was worse.
They didn’t find anything intimidating but transferred us to the ER just to be safe. In the ER, they ran all the tests casket- shafts, EKG, blood, urine, and gave her fluids. Nothing looked life-hanging, and they transferred us home. Kinsley smiled as they wheeled her for her- shaft. Mommy, this is so pleasurable, she said. Indeed, while getting an IV, she laughed and did mystification with me. She always made the swish of everything. But that night, she threw up again, this time in my hands. She was burning up and could slightly. We snuggled in the lounge all night. Her breathing started sounding strange. At first, I allowed she was being dramatic, but commodity deep down told me this wasn’t normal. Also, she coughed and shafted out blood. Her eyes widened. Mommy, it is blood.
I shocked, dipped her up, and contended to the sanatorium, soliciting her to keep talking, so I had known she was still breathing. In the rearview glass, I saw her resting her head on her baby family’s bus seat. Mommy, she whispered every numerous seconds, just to let me know she was still there. Also, in her bitty voice, she asked, Mommy, will I die? It shattered me. We made it to Calvert Memorial.
They rushed her in. Croakers and babysitters girdled her, started oxygen and IVs, and fixed her for transfer to Children’s National. Her patter stayed by her side, conforming her oxygen mask that was too big for her little face. Daddy, I need some time without a mask. She said with a little giggle, still herself in that moment. I bent down. Mommy loves you. I love you too, she said through her mask. Last words by them were said to each other. At Children’s, everything blurred croakers, machines, fear. They asked her to put her on the machine. She might not survive the procedure, but it was our only chance. My hands were shaking when I signed those papers. Terrible details were written at the top. I knew what that meant. She made it through the procedure, but her body was swollen, her croquettes and toes turning black. For two days, we held on to expedient, but deep down, I felt it. I knew.
Her brain had suffered a massive stroke. Her organs were failing. However, she had no way be the same, if she survived. She had lose all four branches and likely be brain-dead. My mister blubbered and asked,” Is there any way she makes it out of also as herself? ” I formerly knew the answer. On Valentine’s Day, February fourteenth, we said goodbye. One by one, family came into her room, tears in their eyes. I lay beside her in the bed, held her hand, and I cried.
My man leaned in, kissed her front, and told her over and over how much we loved her. At three ten p.m., the machines went silent, and our pleasant, stalwart girl Kinsley Reese Sandvik took her last breath. We walked out of the clinic empty-fortified, hearts shattered. But her light, her joy, her array, her love will never leave us. She will always be our ever-loving Valentine.
