Sometimes surrender is the pathway
Meet Ashleigh Robinson, Miss Oklahoma City, who reminds us that sometimes surrender is the pathway to hope. She writes this story:
I try to work up a smile as I walk down the halls of Children's Hospital in Oklahoma City. The journey past the emergency room to the elevators sparks the memory of the last time life was normal. Boarding the elevator, I have 18 seconds before I reach the eighth floor pediatric Intensive Care Unit. The elevator doors open, and suddenly I'm Danielle's perky big sis again, back to gossip with the nurses and hug mom's neck. For my baby sister, this is her 58th day in ICU. There she is — same six IV drips, ventilator and peacefully closed eyes.
Danielle was born with Down Syndrome. Faced with a life full of challenges, her explosive sass and friend-to-all demeanor meant she lived life in a distinctly Danielle way, regardless of who told her she couldn't, wouldn't or shouldn't.
But now this, leukemia! A cruel and poorly timed joke. She had what we thought was a cold that wouldn't go away. We walked into the doors of that ER on a Monday night, and before we could ask for prayers for her at church on Sunday, we almost lost her.
My family is one of the Bible Belt, casserole baking, Hawaiian King Roll communion varieties. Dad was on the church board, mom was in the choir and all the kids were in Bible study each Wednesday AND Sunday. Our faith was our foundation and what brought us through tough days. But this was easily the hardest of hard times. Danielle was our everything — and trust me — no matter how many times you read Job, you will never be ready for your everything to be taken away.
At the time, I was a music student at Oklahoma City University, a convenient 13-minute trip from sorority house to hospital room. I was there every day, usually in between classes, or at the very end of my day when my roommates went to bed. I was supposed to be learning about composition and laughing with my friends at IHOP until 3 a.m. Only, I was learning about lymphocytes and
chatting with nurse Rachel way past 3:00 AM.
This day — No. 58 — I got in my car to head back to campus and the song “Thy Will Be Done” came on the radio. It shattered the act I worked so hard to keep together. I hadn't cried since that night in the ER when mom told me Danielle had cancer. I hadn't let go of my fear, because I couldn't imagine anything in my life that would be worse than losing that girl. By the end of that song, I had released Danielle back to God. Thy will be done. I got to class and a friend asked how Danielle was doing. “She's gonna be fine,” I told him, knowing those words meant something very different to me than to him. ***
Less than a month later, despite the odds, Danielle was discharged from Children's Hospital. In May of 2020, we will celebrate the one-year anniversary of her final chemo treatment. Part of me fears the cancer will come back, but I trust with all of me, God's will for her joyful, sassy and beautiful life.