When fear met faith

Overnight, they watched him so closely. His oxygen levels rose and fell, but somehow his labs kept coming back promising. He still had movement on his left side, and every so often he would open his eyes—just enough to remind us he was still there—before slipping back into sleep. Brett and I took turns sitting beside him, holding his hand, whispering that he wasn’t alone. I kept praying he could feel us, that somehow he knew we were right there, clinging to him.

Morning came on June 17th, but it didn’t feel like morning. It felt heavy. The doctors came in to assess him and prepare him for what we thought was just an “angiogram.” In our minds, it was simple. A test. Maybe a small procedure to fix things. I stopped one of the doctors and asked how he was doing, desperate for reassurance. Instead, she said words that didn’t seem real—“His injury was very severe, he is likely to not recover.” I couldn’t even process it. My mind rejected it before my heart could even feel it. And then suddenly, the transport team was there, and once again- everything started moving so fast.

Brett couldn’t ride in the ambulance, so we separated—something that already felt wrong in a moment like this. He met us at the hospital. Later, we would learn Camden was the first patient transferred out to Brownsboro for a procedure and then brought back to the Children’s hospital— all because God placed the right people in our path. One of his PICU doctors, Dr. Lyons, made it happen. Looking back, I can see it clearly now… God was already moving, already working behind the scenes, even when we couldn’t understand any of it.

But the confusion only grew. Everyone started calling it a “surgery.” That word didn’t fit in my mind. It didn’t belong to our situation—or at least, I refused to let it. I remember texting my mom, trying to make sense of it all: “I’m in PACU. They’re preparing to take him to surgery. I don’t even know why they’re calling it surgery, but they said it would be a few hours. I didn’t think it was that serious.”

They handed me the consent papers—AVM embolization, mechanical thrombectomy. Big words. Scary words. But my heart wasn’t letting them land. I signed quickly, almost blindly, telling myself this was normal. Procedures have risks. This was routine. It had to be. Dr. Laurent came in and spoke with such confidence. He believed Camden had an AVM and that he could “clean it up,” relieve the pressure, and that Camden could have a promising outcome. Those words felt like oxygen to my soul. Something to hold onto. Something to believe in.

When they took Camden back, they told us we’d get updates. Time suddenly felt strange—both frozen and rushing all at once. We realized we might be in Louisville for a few days, or so we thought. We had nothing with us. No clothes, no toiletries. Walmart was right there. We told ourselves we had time.

Looking back now, I see it for what it was. Shock. True, disorienting shock. The kind where your body moves but your mind can’t catch up. The kind where nothing feels real, and yet everything is happening all at once. Because what kind of parents leave their child during a life-threatening surgery… just to get clean clothes? But we did. And it’s hard to even explain why—except that we were surviving moment by moment, doing whatever felt normal in a world that suddenly wasn’t.

We came back and waited. And waited. Every second stretched longer than the last. Then finally, after about three hours, we heard the words we were desperate for—he was out of surgery. He was alive.

Dr. Laurent came to us and explained everything. A type II glomus AVM. Two aneurysms—one posterior, one anterior—both ruptured. The injury at C4, with inflammation spreading far beyond. It was worse than we ever imagined. He was able to stop the bleeding, though not completely fix everything. But the chance of re-bleeding was low. The condition was so rare that even the studies were limited. Recovery was uncertain. Unpredictable.

But still… there was hope.

Our nurse, Lauren, was overwhelmed with joy. She immediately updated the team back at Norton Children’s, and even they were in disbelief. That’s when it finally broke through to me—this was a miracle. They didn’t even think he would survive the surgery. And yet, he did. God had been there the entire time, guiding every step, every decision, every movement of the surgeon’s hands. What could have gone so terribly wrong… didn’t.

Camden was still critical. His oxygen, his breathing, his blood pressure—everything was still fragile. But he was stable. And in that moment, stable felt like everything. After a couple of hours, we were transferred back to Norton Children’s.

And this… this is where something began to shift.

Because while we were sitting in fear, in uncertainty, in complete brokenness—God was moving through others. Earlier that morning, people had already started praying. His story spread faster than we could even comprehend. That night, a Mass was held for Camden at Immaculate Parish. Nearly 300 people came together, lifting his name up, storming heaven with prayers for our boy.

My phone was overflowing with messages. So many began with, “I’m sorry to bother you…” but not a single one was a bother. Each message was a reminder. A reminder that we were not alone. That even in the darkest, most terrifying moment of our lives, God was surrounding us with His people.

And somehow, through the fear, through the unknown, through the heartbreak—there was peace.

A peace that didn’t make sense.

A peace that could only come from Him.