With the new covid restrictions, only one parent could be present at Jorvi, so we had to take turns being with Saimi. On the first Saturday of April, we decided to head home together for the evening to have a sauna and try to relax a bit. I drove to Jorvi to pick up Elli, and went in to say a quick hello to Saimi before we left. I have a vivid memory of sitting in the changing room between rounds of sauna, cooling off, eating olives, and talking about our future, when a phone call cut us short. A nurse told us that Saimi’s abdominal issues had suddenly worsened and her need for extra oxygen had increased rapidly, and that they were on their way to the neonatal intensive care unit in Helsinki by ambulance. It felt like I had run straight into a wall blindfolded, without any idea what had just hit me. My memories of the following days are dreamlike, scattered fragments whose chronological order is no longer entirely clear.
The Women’s Hospital, where Saimi had been rushed, was only about four kilometres from our home, so we got there quickly. Saimi was in a large room that could be converted into an operating theatre if needed, and a nurse sat at her own workstation beside her. When we arrived, Saimi was calm and asleep, most likely due to strong pain medication. She had also been intubated, meaning that a breathing tube had been inserted through her mouth to ensure adequate oxygenation.
We sat by Saimi’s side, spoke to her in soft voices, and watched her sleep. As night fell, we began to feel very tired, but it would have been difficult to sleep in the room. The nurse assured us that Saimi was in good hands and noted that, above all, Saimi needed rest. She also urged us to go home to get some sleep so that we would have enough strength for the days ahead. I recall that Elli would have preferred to stay at the hospital, but I think I persuaded her to come home with me, which I felt guilty about afterwards.
We had barely managed to get a few hours of sleep when the phone woke us in the early hours of the morning. The caller was a nurse from the intensive care unit, telling us that Saimi’s condition had worsened again and that she needed emergency surgery. We rushed back to the hospital as fast as we possibly could. Saimi’s room had been converted into an operating theatre, where the on-call surgeon Annika was performing the operation. We stood in the corridor, shocked and in tears, waiting for news on Saimi’s condition. A cleaner walked past, then came back a moment later carrying two chairs for us to sit on. That wordless gesture and her compassionate expression have remained vividly in my mind, even though my memories of those moments are otherwise blurred, and I don’t even know how long we ended up waiting in that corridor.
At some point, Annika came to us and, to our relief, told us that the surgery had gone well. She explained that Saimi had been diagnosed with a volvulus, meaning the intestine had twisted in on itself, causing a bowel obstruction and cutting off blood supply to part of the gut. So now the reason for the abdominal problems was clear. The volvulus had apparently been tightening gradually, and part of the intestine had become necrotic and it had to be resected. Annika said she had tried to remove as little of the intestine as possible, and that the section taken out was relatively short, so Saimi would manage just fine with what remained.
We felt relieved, and told ourselves it could only get better from here. Once Saimi’s room had been cleaned, we were allowed back in to see her. This time neither of us had any intention of going home, and I don’t think we were encouraged to do so either. In principle, covid restrictions meant only one parent was allowed in the intensive care unit at a time, but for now we were both allowed to stay by Saimi’s side.
Just a few hours after the first surgery, Saimi took a sudden turn for the worse and had to undergo emergency surgery again. Since it was Sunday, the hospital was still relying on on-call doctors. Since then, I have often found myself thinking how reasonable on-call systems in hospitals really are. As I understand it, the first-line on-call doctor who is present in the hospital can work a 24-hour shift, while the second-line on-call doctor backing them up may be on duty for as long as 48 hours. The second-line doctor only comes in when needed and otherwise rests or remains on call at home. I wonder how long a person’s judgement and capacity to act can realistically stay sharp, particularly when the work demands extreme precision under intense time pressure. It was something I would come back to many times over the years, as we spent a lot of time in the hospital with Saimi over weekends and public holidays.
On the other hand, the hospital is the country’s leading university hospital, generally home to the best surgeons and other specialists in Finland, who also cover the on-call shifts. Annika was still on second-line call, and she was called in to perform Saimi’s second operation. Afterwards, she came to us looking somber and told us that, unfortunately, more of the intestine had to be removed. She believed, however, that a reasonable amount of the intestine was still left, and Saimi would be able to live with it. Now we just had to wait and see how Saimi would recover from the surgery, and hope for the best. We waited in the corridor for the room to be cleaned so we could go back in to be with Saimi.
The doctor in charge of Saimi’s care on weekdays, Samuli, seemed to be a very skilled and caring doctor. I particularly appreciated the way he spoke to us about Saimi’s condition: clearly and directly, but also with compassion. The surgeries had been extremely hard on Saimi. During the operations, her kidneys had been severely damaged, and there were also problems with her blood circulation. As her kidney function declined, her body began to retain fluid and she became very swollen. Samuli told us he had consulted several specialists, and it was looking as though there was very little that could be done. Saimi was still so small that dialysis, for instance, was not an option. The situation was beginning to look very bleak, and Samuli believed it quite possible that Saimi’s body would not hold on much longer. Soon, her condition had weakened to the point where Samuli advised us to prepare for the worst, and asked whether we would like a hospital chaplain to come before Saimi passes away.
At that time, and in the coming years when we had to stay in the hospital, I found the thought of a hospital chaplain’s presence downright blasphemous. Being next to your own dying child, and surrounded by suffering children, it is extremely difficult to believe in the existence of any kind of divine being – or at least a benevolent one. Of course, I do understand people’s need for spirituality and the presence of a chaplain in times of distress. Later on, the hospital chaplain at the New Children’s Hospital, who turned out to be an exceptionally warm-hearted and compassionate person, would come to help us as well.
We wanted to spend our last moments together with Saimi just by ourselves. We stayed by Saimi’s side, talked to her gently, told her that mommy and daddy love her so very much, and cried. Saimi was very swollen and looked distressed, but the strong medication kept the pain away. We thought our journey together was coming to an end, but unexpectedly her kidney function recovered slightly and Saimi’s condition began to improve slowly. It felt like a miracle, and hope crept back into our minds. Maybe everything would turn out well after all.