using Dr. O’Hol eran’s rigging of plastic tubing and grenades. Slowly,
gradual y, Colton took a turn for the better. The upchucking stopped, his
color returned, and he began to eat a little. We knew he was on the mend
when he began to sit up and chat with us, play with the video game console
the nurses had stationed at his bed, and even take an interest in the brand-
new stuffed lion that Cassie had brought him several days before. Final y,
seven days after we checked in to the hospital in North Platte, the medical
team said we could take our son home.
Like soldiers after a long but victorious fight, Sonja and I were both
exhausted and overjoyed. On March 13, we packed up al the debris of a
lengthy hospital stay in a hodgepodge of shopping bags, duffel bags, and
plastic bags and headed for the elevators, me pushing Colton in a
wheelchair and Sonja holding a thick bouquet of going-home bal oons.
The elevator doors had begun sliding shut when Dr. O’Hol eran
appeared in the hal way and literal y yel ed for us to stop. “You can’t go!
You can’t go!” His voice echoed in the tile corridor as he waved a sheaf of
paper in our direction. “We’ve stil got problems!”
A last-minute blood test had revealed a radical spike in Colton’s white
cel count, Dr. O’Hol eran told us when he caught up to us at the elevator.
“It’s probably another abscess,” he said. “We may have to operate again.”
I thought Sonja was going to pass out right there. Both of us were
walking zombies by then and had nearly reached our limit. Colton burst into
tears.
Another CT scan revealed new pockets of infection in Colton’s
abdomen. That afternoon, Dr. O’Hol eran and his surgical team had to
open up our little boy a second time and clean him out again. This time,
Sonja and I weren’t terrified; the shadow of death had long since passed
from Colton’s face. But now we had a new worry: Colton hadn’t eaten for
something like ten days. He had weighed only about forty pounds to begin
with, and now he had melted away so that his elbows and knees appeared
abnormal y large, his face thin like a hungry orphan.
After the surgery, I brought our concerns to Dr. O’Hol eran. “He hasn’t
eaten more than a little Jel -O or broth in almost two weeks,” I said. “How
long can a kid go without eating?”
Dr. O’Hol eran placed Colton in the intensive care unit and ordered extra
nutrition for him, administered through a feeding tube. But the ICU bed was
as much for us as for Colton, I suspect. We hadn’t slept for nearly as long
as Colton hadn’t eaten, and we were absolutely ragged. Putting Colton in
ICU was the only way the doctor could get us to go get some rest.
“Colton wil be fine tonight,” he told us. “He’l have his own nurse at al
times, and if anything happens, someone wil be right there to take care of
him.”
I have to admit, those words sounded like an oasis in a desert of
exhaustion.
We were afraid to leave Colton alone, but we knew Dr. O’Hol eran was
right. That night was the first night since leaving the Harrises’ home in
Greeley that Sonja and I spent together. We talked. We cried. We
encouraged each other. But mostly, we slept like shipwreck survivors on
their first warm, dry night.
After a night in the ICU, Colton was moved to yet another hospital room,
and the wait-and-see cycle began al over again. When can Colton get out
of here? When can we go home and be normal again? Now, though,
Colton’s bowels seemed to have stopped working. He couldn’t use the
bathroom, and hour by hour, he grew more miserable.
“Daddy, my tummy hurts,” he moaned, lying in bed. The doctor said that
even if Colton could pass gas, that would be a good sign. We tried walking
him up and down the hal s to shake things loose, but Colton could only
shuffle along slowly, hunched over in pain. Nothing seemed to help. By the
fourth day after the second surgery, he could only lie on the bed, writhing as
constipation set in. That afternoon, Dr. O’Hol eran came with more bad
news.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but I think we’ve
done everything for Colton we can do here. We’re thinking maybe it would
be best to transfer him to a children’s hospital. Either the one in Omaha or
the one in Denver.”
Between us, we’d managed something like five nights’ sleep in fifteen
days. After more than two grueling weeks at Colton’s bedside, we had
nearly hit the road back to normal—with the elevator doors literal y closing,
our family inside with bal oons—when the whole thing crashed around us
again. And now, our son was back in excruciating pain with no end in sight.
We couldn’t even see a horizon.
Just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did: a freak spring
snowstorm was moving into the Midwest. Within a couple of hours, thick
drifts of snow lay piled against the hospital doors and wheel-wel high in the
parking lots. Whether we chose the children’s hospital in Omaha, eight
hours away, or Denver, three hours away, there would be no way short of
an airlift that we could reach either one.
That’s when Sonja lost it. “I can’t do this anymore!” she said and broke
down in tears.
And right about then was when a group of people in our church decided
it was time for some serious prayer. Church friends began making phone
cal s, and before long, around eighty people had driven over to Crossroads
Wesleyan for a prayer service. Some were in our congregation and some
from other churches, but they had al come together to pray for our son.
Brad Dil an cal ed me on my cel to tel me what was going on. “What,
specifical y, can we pray for?” he asked.
Feeling a little odd about it, I told him what Dr. O’Hol eran had said would
be a good sign for Colton. So that night might be the only time in recorded
history that eighty people gathered and prayed for someone to pass gas!
Of course, they also prayed for a break in the weather so that we could
get to Denver, and they prayed for healing too. But within an hour, the first
prayer was answered!
Immediately, Colton began to feel better. That evening, he was able to
use the bathroom. By the next morning, he was up in his room, playing as
though none of this nightmare had ever happened. Watching him, Sonja
and I couldn’t believe our eyes: except for being skinny, Colton was
completely and utterly himself again. In less than twelve hours, we had
cycled from completely desperate to completely normal.
Around 9 a.m., Dr. O’Hol eran came in to check on his patient. When he
saw Colton up, smiling and chipper, and playing with his action figures, the
doctor was speechless. For a long moment, he actual y just stood and
stared. Astonished, he examined Colton and then scheduled another round
of tests to be triple-sure that Colton’s insides were on the mend. This time,
Colton literal y skipped al the way to the CT scan lab.
We stayed in the hospital another day and a half just to be certain
Colton’s turnaround stuck. During those thirty-six hours, it seemed we had
more nurses in and out than usual. Slowly, one at a time and in pairs, they
would slip into the room—and each time, their reaction was the same: they
just stood and stared at our little boy.
ELEVEN
COLTON BURPO, COLLECTION AGENT
After we got home from the hospital, we slept for a week. Okay, I’m
exaggerating—but not much. Sonja and I were completely drained. It was
like we had just been through a seventeen-day almost-car-crash. Our
wounds weren’t visible on the outside, but the soul-tearing worry and
tension had taken its tol .
One evening about a week after we got home, Sonja and I were
standing in the kitchen talking about money. She stood over a portable
table next to our microwave, sorting through the enormous stack of mail
that had accumulated during Colton’s hospital stay. Each time she opened
an envelope, she jotted down a number on a sheet of paper lying on the
counter. Even from where I stood leaning against the cabinets on the
opposite side of the kitchen, I could see that the column of figures was
getting awful y long.
Final y, she clicked the pen closed and laid it on the counter. “Do you
know how much money I need to pay the bil s this week?”
As both the family and business bookkeeper, Sonja asked me that
question regularly. She worked part-time as a teacher so we had that
steady income, but it was a relatively smal stream. My pastor’s salary was
also smal , cobbled together from the tithes of a smal but faithful
congregation. So the bulk of the earning came from our garage-door
business, and that income waxed and waned with the seasons. Every
couple of weeks, she presented me with the figures—not only on
household bil s but on business payables. Now there were also several
massive hospital bil s.
I performed a rough tal y in my head and offered her a guess. “Probably
close to $23,000, right?”
“Yep,” she said, and sighed.
It might as wel have been a mil ion bucks. With me unable to work the
garage-door jobs because of my broken leg and then the hyperplasia, we
had already burned through our savings. Then, just when I was getting back
into ful swing, Colton’s il ness hit, knocking me out of work for nearly
another month. We had about as much chance of coming up with $23,000
as we did of winning the lottery. And since we don’t play the lottery, those
chances were zero.
“Do you have any receivables? Anything due you can col ect?” Sonja
said.
She asked because she had to, but she knew the answer. I shook my
head.
“I can put off some of these,” she said, nodding toward the envelope
stack. “But the tenth bil s are definitely due.”
Here’s a great picture of how smal a town Imperial actual y is: folks have
tabs or accounts they run at places like the gas station, the grocery store,
and the hardware store. So if we need a fil -up or a loaf of bread, we just
swing by and sign for it. Then on the tenth of the month, Sonja makes a
fifteen-minute trip around town to settle up. Our “tenth bil s” are one of the
cool things about living in a smal town. On the other hand, when you can’t
pay, it’s a lot more humbling.
I sighed. “I can go explain the situation, ask for more time.”
Sonja held up a sheaf of papers a little thicker than the others. “The
medical bil s are starting to come in. One of them is $34,000.”
“How much wil the insurance cover?”
“There’s a $3,200 deductible.”
“We can’t even pay that right now,” I said.
“Do you stil want me to write the tithe check?” Sonja asked, referring to
our regular weekly donation to the church.
“Absolutely,” I said. God had just given us our son back; there was no
way we were not going to give back to God.
At just that moment, Colton came around the corner from the living room
He stood at the end of the counter with his hands on his hips. “Dad,
Jesus used Dr. O’Hol eran to help fix me,” he said, standing at the end of
the counter with his hands on his hips. “You need to pay him.”
Then he turned around and marched out. Around the corner and gone.
Sonja and I looked at each other. What?
We were both a little taken aback, since Colton had seen the surgeon as
the source of al the poking, cutting, prodding, draining, and pain. Now here
we were, just a week out of the hospital, and he seemed to have changed
his mind.
“Wel , I guess he likes Dr. O’Hol eran now,” Sonja said.
Even if Colton had found it in his heart to forgive the good doctor,
though, his little proclamation in the kitchen was weird. How many not-
quite-four-year-olds analyze the family financial woes and demand
payment for a creditor? Especial y one he never particularly liked?
And the way he put it too: “Dad, Jesus used Dr. O’Hol eran to help fix
me.” Weird.
Even weirder, though, was what happened next. With $23,000 in bil s
due and payable immediately, we didn’t know what we were going to do.
Sonja and I discussed asking our bank for a loan, but it turned out we didn’t
need to. First, my Grandma El en, who lives in Ulysses, Kansas, sent us a
check to help with the hospital bil s. Then, in a single week, more checks
started arriving in the mail. Checks for $50, $100, $200, and al with cards
and notes that said things like, “We heard about your troubles and we’re
praying for you,” or “God put it on my heart to send you this. I hope it helps.”
By the end of the week, our mailbox was ful again—but with gifts, not
bil s. Church members, close friends, and even people who only knew us
from a distance responded to our need without our even asking. The
checks added up to thousands of dol ars, and we were astonished when
we found that, combined with what my grandmother sent, the total was
what we needed to meet that first wave of bil s, almost to the dol ar.
Not long after Colton became a pint-size col ection agent, he got in a little
bit of trouble. Nothing huge, just an incident at a friend’s house where he
got into a tug-of-war over some toys. That evening, I cal ed him to the
kitchen table. I was sitting in a straight-back chair, and he climbed up in the
chair beside me and knelt in it. Colton leaned on his elbows and regarded
me with sky blue eyes that seemed a little bit sheepish.
If you have a preschooler, you know it can sometimes be hard to look
past their cuteness and be serious about discipline. But I managed to put a
serious look on my face. “Colton,” I began, “do you know why you’re in
trouble?”
“Yeah. Because I didn’t share,” he said, casting his eyes down at the
table.
“That’s right. You can’t do that, Colton. You’ve got to treat people better
than that.”
Colton raised his eyes and looked at me. “Yeah, I know, Dad. Jesus told
me I had to be nice.”
&nb
sp; His words caught me a little by surprise. It was the way he said it: Jesus
told me . . .
But I brushed it aside. His Sunday school teachers must be doing a
good job, I thought.
“Wel then, Jesus was right, wasn’t he?” I said, and that was the end of it.
I don’t even think I gave Colton any consequences for not sharing. After al ,
with Jesus in the picture, I’d pretty much been outranked.
A couple of weeks later, I began preparing to preside over a funeral at