Chapter 1: Blood Clots
This series is a fictionalized account of when our eldest daughter battled a life-threatening leukemia. (She’s healthy now, praise God!) The medical parts of the story mirror real events that happened; the rest, including the characters, are entirely fiction.
Betsy is not Claudia; Olivia is not me; Nico is not Matt; the doctors and nurses are not based on actual doctors and nurses we encountered. Any resemblance to real-life persons is coincidental.
Chapter 1: Blood Clots
Thursday, May 20, 2021 - 7:30pm
Olivia Rodriguez gave her daughter’s hand a quick squeeze as she knelt to the bathroom floor. The stench of vomit reached her nostrils, but she urged herself not to recoil. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she said softly. “With you three girls all babies at once, I’ve seen my share of vomit.”
Betsy smiled weakly. “I tried really hard to make it.”
Olivia bent with her paper towel. “I know, sweetheart. I know you did.” She wanted to snuggle her sweet nine-year-old, all arms and legs where toddler squish had once dominated. But it would have to wait.
She sighed. Olivia loved everything about being a mother—even the surprise of triplets: baptism by fire!—except for all the bodily fluids. She put on a brave face for Betsy, but vomit was particularly hard when the triplets were little: tiny chunks of whatever they’d eaten, still recognizable in a sea of stink. She swiped at a blueberry, trying to scoop it up.
A trail of red streaked behind it. The hair on the back of her neck sprang to attention, the air suddenly thick with lightning and foreboding. That’s no blueberry, she thought, studying it: the clump was a deep crimson, but it brightened into a fearful red where it made contact with the paper towel.
“Nico,” she called out, working to keep her voice steady. Light. “Can you come here?”
Her husband made noncommittal noises from somewhere in the distance. He didn’t know what she had seen, didn’t know her brain was spinning. He wasn’t thinking about the other “blueberries” Betsy had thrown up after breakfast, the ones that didn’t “miss” and didn’t have to be swiped from the floor. Sweat rolled down Olivia’s back as panic settled in. This is more than just sick.
She yelled again, and the piercing alarm in her voice drew Nico to the bathroom. She held up the paper towel. “Betsy is throwing up blood clots.” The words came out clear, almost flat.
He stared at the deep burgundy splotch in Olivia’s hand. She could see the panic rising in him, confirming that she had to push hers down. It could be dealt with later.
“Nico,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “Tell Sophia and Gabby to go get John and see if he can watch them. He should be home today. Then pack a bag of Betsy’s things to keep her occupied while we wait at the ER.” He nodded, and Olivia turned her attention back to Betsy. “Sweetheart, blood clots aren’t a normal symptom of a stomach bug. But they’re a way for your body to tell us something is wrong. We need to have a doctor look at you, but because it’s so late, we have to go to the emergency room. We might have to wait in the waiting room for a long time, and we’ll definitely be up past bedtime. But we’re going to get an answer and get you better, okay?”
Betsy smiled weakly and nodded. Had she looked this pale all day? Why were her eyes puffing up? Was she having an allergic reaction to something? Olivia grasped for memories about allergic reactions, trying to bring to mind a web page, a search, anything that could offer hope and answers. Speculation won’t help right now, she scolded herself. You need to act. “Sweetie, let’s go put on some jammies so you’ll be comfy while we wait. Like I said, it might be a while.”
They walked down the hall and Olivia marveled again at how tall Betsy had gotten—all three of the girls, really. Nico’s family had known hunger and hardship in rural Mexico; he joked that he should be taller and that Olivia had Viking blood, an unfair advantage but one that might make their girls tall in the end. So far, he seemed to be right: the triplets were the tallest girls in their grade.
Betsy pulled off her jeans to put on her favorite blue pajama bottoms, the ones with the dragonflies. And that’s when Olivia gasped.
Betsy jumped. “Mama, what’s wrong?”
Olivia got up close to Betsy’s bare legs. “Where did these bruises come from?”
“I was playing a little rough in gym two weeks ago, I guess.” Betsy shrugged and hung her head. “It didn’t really hurt, but the next day my legs were really bruised.”
“Two weeks ago?” Olivia asked, inspecting Betsy’s legs. The bruises looked purple, almost fresh. They showed up on her thighs, her knees, her calves. Too many, too deep to be rough play in gym class. As Olivia bent closer to the floor, she saw tiny maroon specks on her daughter’s feet. Too tiny to be chickenpox, but too many to be nothing. Where had they come from? Had they been there for weeks, too? “Sweetheart, when did these little speckles show up?”
Betsy inspected her feet; she seemed surprised. “I don’t know. I guess I didn’t like the bruises, so I stopped looking at my legs and hoped they’d just go away.” She slipped a sweatshirt over her pajama top, her brow furrowed. “Mama, I’m going to be okay, right?”
Olivia worked her face into a comforting smile, aware that any tightness or insecurity would raise a red flag. This girl doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course, sweetheart,” she said softly and prayed it would be so as they headed outside toward the car. “We’ll get it all worked out.” Lord, please.
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