There is a specific kind of silence that haunts the hallways of a home where a child is fighting for their life. It is not the peaceful silence of a sleeping household; it is a heavy, brittle quiet, charged with the constant, low-humming electricity of vigilance. For those who have followed the journey of #MightyMiller, you know that our days are measured not in hours, but in breaths.
Last night, that brittle silence was shattered by five words that every parent of a medically fragile child dreams of never hearing.
“Mom, I Can’t Breathe.”
It wasn’t a cry. It wasn’t a scream. It was a strained, desperate whisper—the kind that carries the weight of a thousand storms. Miller, our warrior, our Lego-loving, joke-telling, indomitable son, looked at me with eyes that mirrored a sudden, terrifying void. In that moment, the world didn’t just slow down; it stopped.
The instinct to panic is a powerful wave, but the instinct to protect is a fortress. Miller didn’t just share his pain; he gave me a directive: “Call 911.” When a child tells you they can’t breathe, they aren’t just reporting a symptom; they are fighting for their existence. I dialed those three digits with fingers that felt like lead, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs that seemed to say, Not today. Not like this.
The Blue Lights and the Longest Ride
The arrival of the ambulance is a blur of strobe-light blues and the professional, clipped tones of first responders. There is a strange, detached comfort in the chaos—the sound of the gurney wheels, the snap of the oxygen mask, the steadying hands of people who run toward the fires we are trying to extinguish.
The ride to OU Children’s Hospital was the longest journey of my life. Sitting in the back of that ambulance, watching the monitors flicker with Miller’s vitals, I was reminded of how fragile the thread of life truly is. Every bump in the road, every turn of the siren, felt like a battle cry. Miller lay there, his body working harder than any fourteen-year-old’s ever should, his spirit still anchored by the fierce love we poured into him with every touch of his hand.
The War Room: OU Children’s
Stepping into the Emergency Room at OU Children’s is like stepping into a war room. The doctors and nurses moved with a practiced, urgent grace. In these moments, you realize that you aren’t just in a hospital; you are in a sanctuary of science and hope.
The immediate fear—the shadow that looms over every respiratory crisis—is intubation. To be “tubed” is to surrender the most basic human function to a machine. It is a necessary mercy, but it is a bridge we always hope we don’t have to cross.
Here is the miracle of the hour: As I write this, Miller has NOT had to be intubated.
He is fighting. His lungs, though tired, are still holding their own. The medical team is surrounding him with the best support modern medicine can offer, but we know that the most powerful medicine isn’t found in a vial or an IV bag. It is found in the unseen.
A Call to the Prayer Warriors
This is where you come in.
Throughout Miller’s journey, we have talked about the #MightyMiller community. We have talked about the “Decision Room” and the power of favor. But tonight, we aren’t just asking for a “like” or a “share.” We are asking for a storming of the gates of Heaven.
When Miller told me he couldn’t breathe, he was reaching out for air. Now, we are reaching out for your spirit. We are believing—boldly, loudly, and without apology—that he will not need that ventilator. We are believing that his oxygen levels will stabilize, that the inflammation will recede, and that the “cautiously optimistic” reports from the doctors will turn into definitive victories.
Why We Fight
People often ask how we keep going. How do you stay hopeful when the pulmonologists give disheartening statistics? How do you stay grounded when your son is being rushed away in an ambulance?
The answer is simple: We have seen him do it before.
Miller is a boy who finds joy in the click of a Lego brick and the punchline of a good joke. He is a boy who looks at statistics and sees a challenge, not a destiny. He is a boy who knows that God is the final decision-maker, and that no medical chart can account for the sheer will of a warrior or the collective faith of thousands.
Last night was a valley. It was dark, it was cold, and it was terrifying. But even in the deepest valley, there is a path forward.
How You Can Help Right Now
- Pray for the Breath of Life: Visualize Miller’s lungs clearing. Pray for his airway to remain open and for his body to find rest without the need for invasive machines.
- Pray for the Medical Team: Pray for the ICU doctors and nurses at OU Children’s. Ask for “favor” over their decisions—that they would have the clarity to see the exact path Miller needs.
- Hold the Line: Do not let fear take a seat at the table. We are scared, yes. We are overwhelmed, yes. But we are not defeated.
The Road Ahead
Miller is currently stabilized, but he is still very, very sick. We are taking this breath by breath. The “wild ride” we’ve been on just took a sharp, dangerous turn, but the driver hasn’t changed. God is still near. He was in the ambulance. He is in the ICU room. He is in the breath that Miller just took.
Thank you for not letting us do this alone. Thank you for being the oxygen Miller needs when his own strength fails. We are staying “prayed up.” We are keeping our eyes on the prize: a fifteen-year-old boy who can breathe deeply, laugh loudly, and tell the story of how he fought the wind and won.
Stay tuned. Keep believing. Keep praying.
#MightyMiller #ButGod #KeepGoing #PrayForMiller
For those who wish to support the family during this emergency stay at OU Children’s, gift cards for food (DoorDash) or groceries remain a massive blessing as we remain bedside.
Venmo: @mrsMirandaGriffith Last 4 digits: 8226
