This Christmas, our home feels different. The lights seem brighter. The silence feels heavier. Two weeks ago, our world stopped. We almost lost our daughter, Peyton.
It started with the flu and strep. Common winter illnesses, they said. The doctors told us not to worry. “The flu is aggressive this year.” “High fevers are normal,” they insisted.
But a mother’s intuition is different. It is a quiet, persistent alarm. I didn’t sleep for six days. I stayed awake watching her breathe. I felt a fear I couldn’t explain.
I gave her water every hour. I gave her medicine every four. Her fever refused to break. The doctors said to stay home. My gut told me to run.
At midnight, the nightmare began. I looked at Peyton’s bed. Her body suddenly went stiff. Her eyes opened, staring at nothing. She was trapped in a seizure.
Her hands were in prayer position. I tried to scream her name. I shook her, tapping her face. There was no response. Just a terrifying, empty silence.
My heart didn’t just sink. It felt completely gutted. In that moment, time vanished. I grabbed her and ran. The car became a lifeline.
I drove 105 mph. The hospital was eight minutes away. I didn’t care about the speed. I only cared about her heartbeat. We reached the ER in minutes.
The doctors moved with urgency. Lumbar punctures, CT scans, MRIs. The waiting was a slow agony. By morning, her eyes had swollen. They looked like bruised golf balls.
The results finally came back. A sinus infection had turned deadly. It infiltrated her orbital areas. It reached the fluid around her brain. The word “brain surgery” was spoken.
I fell to my knees. How did we get here? From a flu to brain surgery? We prayed like never before. We begged for a miracle.
Thankfully, the doctors pivoted. She needed two emergency surgeries. They drained the infection from her sinuses. They stopped it before it crossed. Peyton fought with incredible strength.
Ten days in the hospital followed. Ten days of monitors and wires. Ten days of holding her hand. We finally came home yesterday. Peyton is now slowly recuperating.
Praise God for this outcome. The house is full of joy. But the trauma remains close. This could have ended so differently. We are lucky to be together.
This Christmas isn’t about gifts. It isn’t about the perfect meal. It is about the girl breathing. It is about the miracle sitting. It is about being alive.
Please, hold your family tight. Listen to your motherly intuition. Never ignore that inner voice. It is often the only shield. Love is our greatest blessing.
We are celebrating life today. We are grateful for every breath. We are home. We are whole. We are together.
