“Mom! Mom!” My one-year-old daughter called out through the baby monitor.
“Coming!” I replied, placing my steaming coffee down on the table.
As I made my way to her room, I was ready with a cheerful “Good morning!” But upon entering, I found her sitting in her crib, partially obscured by the railing.
And then I saw it.
My daughter was motionless, her body covered in a disturbing amount of blood. A stream flowed from her nose, staining her pajamas and skin, while her blonde hair clumped together, darkened by the drying blood. As I reached for her, her head lolled to one side like a rag doll.
“Something’s wrong with the baby!” I screamed to my husband, who was in the next room.
Within moments, he rushed into the nursery, his expression mirroring my horror. He tilted her head back and pinched her nose, trying to stop the relentless flow of blood, but it continued without pause.
“We need to get her to the ER,” he insisted, wrapping her blood-soaked blanket around her protectively.
Taking a deep breath, I nodded and followed him to the car. I could feel her heart racing against my shirt—thump thump thump—breaking the silence all the way to the hospital.
Once we arrived, we were taken into a private room where we anxiously awaited the attending physician. When he arrived, along with his assistant, their shock was evident as they observed our daughter, whose body and mine were painted in varying shades of red. After a swift examination, we were informed she needed to be transferred to Texas Children’s Hospital immediately.
In the ambulance, I anxiously scanned my daughter’s body, desperately assuring myself that her chest was rising and falling. I held her limp hand and whispered my fears to her.
Then, suddenly, her body convulsed, and a torrent of bloody vomit erupted from her mouth. It felt as if invisible threads were tightening around my throat, stealing the air from my lungs. I couldn’t think or move—only scream in anguish.
Thirty minutes later, we reached the hospital, where a flurry of medical personnel surrounded her, connecting her to machines and tubes, their voices a chaotic symphony of urgency.
“Excuse me, please come with me,” a nurse said, pulling us away.
We followed her into the ICU, where the doctors discovered that our daughter’s platelet count was alarmingly low. To put it into perspective, a healthy child should have a platelet count between 150,000 and 300,000, but our daughter’s was a mere 3,000. This was critical, as low platelets greatly increase the risk of hemorrhage due to the blood’s inability to clot.
When our daughter experienced the nosebleed, her platelets should have clotted to seal the wound, but they did not—resulting in severe blood loss, anemia, and the necessity of a blood transfusion. Just the day before, she had appeared perfectly healthy, and now she required an IV line for donor blood to save her life.
Throughout the following hours, doctors from various specialties visited our room, monitoring her vitals and reassuring us that she was stable, given the circumstances. They mentioned terms like leukemia and thrombocytopenia (ITP), indicating that more tests were needed for a complete diagnosis.
“What’s going on?” I’d ask repeatedly.
“We’ll have answers soon,” the doctor would respond.
The next morning, we learned that our daughter did not have cancer, but rather a blood disorder called idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura (ITP). The doctor hypothesized that she had developed a viral infection the previous month, causing her immune system to mistakenly attack her platelets along with the virus.
The recommended treatment was an intravenous immunoglobulin (IVIG) infusion therapy, aimed at resetting her immune response. Fortunately, this treatment was successful; within 24 hours, her platelet count returned to a normal level of 150,000, and two days later, we were able to take her home.
A year has since passed, and while the cause of her condition remains a mystery, we now know that approximately 4 out of every 100,000 children develop ITP each year. Symptoms can range from minor bruising to severe bleeding, and while many children recover quickly, the experience left a lasting impact on us.
This ordeal has taught me that unexpected tragedies can strike at any moment, and while I cannot prevent them, I must not live my life in constant fear. I can’t rush to the doctor for every bruise, worrying about the return of ITP; I refuse to let the trauma overshadow my daughter’s life—or mine. Instead, I choose to focus on the positive aspects of her life, celebrating the fact that she is with us today, thanks to the dedicated medical professionals who worked tirelessly to save her.
Being a parent means setting aside your own worries to be a source of comfort for your child. I must believe that both of us will be just fine.
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In summary, though the experience was harrowing, it reinforced the importance of gratitude and focusing on the positive moments in life, especially as a parent.
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