In February 2017, my world as I understood and lived it changed. Everything I believed about life, faith, and connectedness shifted irrevocably. The news reports of our daughter Maddie’s accident appeared in a succinct three paragraphs containing the cursory facts. The detailed events of Maddie’s accident have never been divulged, and it is only now, after years of healing and living, that I can share our story. The memories of that day are emotional, sometimes painful, but, above all, miraculous.
Sunday, February 5, 2017, started like any other day in our Hammond home. Sunday mornings are dedicated to family and church, but that doesn’t mean it was easy to rouse Jamie and Maddie to get out of the house on time to get to service. I glanced over at the clock and groaned. “Come on, Jamie.” I tapped on Maddie’s door and headed to the kitchen to grab something to drink. Typically, we end up rushing through our morning routine. As I put on my dress, a camouflage design that Maddie and I both adored, Jamie reminded me that we would be going over to his parents’ for lunch. “Jamie Lynn. It’s Super Bowl Sunday, so I’d like to leave their house by three.” He loved all the festivities that came with the big game. By the time everyone was ready to go, we were a few minutes behind. Maddie and I walked out in our matching dresses to a smiling Jamie, who sat in the idling SUV. “You girls look beautiful.” He really was so sweet and it’s a rare occasion when Maddie and I are dressed alike.
The church pews were full when we arrived and there was an energy of excitement that had little to do with faith and a whole lot to do with the big game later in the day. The sermon ended with “Let us pray” and a “amen.” We slowly made our way out of church, acknowledged our friends and neighbors, and wished everyone a good day. A typical Sunday morning in Hammond.
One of the things we love about going out to Jamie’s parents’ house is that they are the most warm and welcoming people. Afternoons at Ms. Holly and Mr. J’s are usually a casual affair, so we decided to go home and change into more comfortable clothes. Again, Maddie and I ended up tossing on similar sweats and shirts, both loving comfort over all else. I paused and considered not going with them, preferring to work and enjoy the solitude of the afternoon. It wasn’t unusual for me to take time for myself after church. But I pushed the impulse aside and readied myself for family time. Ms. Holly prepared a roast, and the warm meal was welcoming on the unseasonably cool February morning.
After a couple of hours, I wanted to get home to do some chores and work. I looked over at Jamie and gave him the “wrap it up” sign, indicating it was time to leave. But I noticed Maddie was asking Jamie permission for something. “Please, please, just one ride on my ATV.” Then she gave me her best pleading face. “Momma, can I please ride my side-by-side?” My immediate response was, “You can ride your ATV another time. I really want to get going, Maddie.” Our relentless eight-year-old begged and we gave in. I told her firmly, “Maddie, just a couple of laps around the pond and then we are out of here.”
Maddie took off toward the storage shed. Before I took a deep breath, Maddie was strapped in and revving the ATV’s engine. Impatiently, I stood watching and thought about all the things I would do once we got back home. She took off around the pond, which had a higher water level than normal for this time of year because of a heavy rain the night before. The four of us watched in awe as our cautious Maddie, who was beaming with exhilaration, made her first loop around. Jamie took out his phone to get a video of a smiling Maddie as she zoomed by. We couldn’t help but be delighted by her pure joy. The dogs were barking with excitement. Honey, the large German shepherd, known for chasing the ATVs and barking at the sound of the muffler, took off around the pond. Maddie was into her final loop, and we watched from our position across the pond. One moment we were sharing in Maddie’s fun, and in the next, life as we knew it came to a screeching halt. We saw the side-by-side make a hard left turn, which caused it to flip off the embankment, and then we saw Maddie disappear beneath the water. I cocked my head to the side in disbelief, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Instinctively, we ran into the water to get to Maddie. I heard disembodied screaming—and realized it was mine. Jamie was just ahead of me in the water, making his way to my baby. Instinctively, I ran after him. In her quick thinking, Ms. Holly called 911. My only thought was, Get to her! My brain shifted into autopilot, and I moved as quickly as I could. I screamed, “Oh, my baby. Oh, baby. Momma’s coming! Jamie! Get to her. God! Please, save my baby!”
Within a minute, Jamie finally got to her, and I was right behind him. We clamored to pull her from under the water. “I can feel her arm. She’s not moving! Jamie! She’s stuck. WE’VE GOT TO GET THIS THING OFF HER. NOW!” I gulped in air and dove under, trying to free her. I started to think, This is taking too long. Oh baby, Momma’s trying. Jamie and his dad were straining to dislodge the ATV, but it wouldn’t budge. “God, please, don’t take her. Maddie, Momma’s here.”
Mr. J screamed, “Go get the big ATV and the chain.” As we continued to try and save Maddie, Jamie took off faster than a man his age should be able to and came back on a larger ATV with a chain in his hand. “Here, Dad. Tie this to the front.” Mr. J dove underneath the water to fasten the chain securely to the front of it. They told me to get out of the water so they could get the ATV moved. After several minutes of effort, debilitating fatigue started to set in and my hopes we could free her began to fade. I knew that this was too long to be under the water. It felt like forever. Oh my God! I was crawling out of the way so the men could move the ATV off Maddie, when I saw an EMT running at full speed toward me. I vaguely thought, Where did that EMT come from? “Please, get here! Faster!” I panted. “Help us.” Then I spoke to Maddie. “Oh baby, we’re trying! Momma’s here! You’re not alone.” The first responder got in the water just as the ATV was dragged from the pond. The ATV was on a slant, and Maddie was tangled in the protective netting. Once they freed her, the EMT pulled Maddie out and laid her down next to me. She was unconscious, her body distended, face swollen and eerily blue. I got as close as I could and repeated, “Momma’s here, baby. Momma’s here.” The EMT started CPR. Nothing was working—not the compressions or the forced influx of air. No response. “Momma’s here.” Recognizing that CPR wasn’t working, the EMT picked up her lifeless body and then took off as fast as possible toward the ambulance, continuing to beat on her chest. I began clawing my way up the embankment and threw up. I tried to crawl toward the ambulance, but the shock was setting in. I knew what I had just witnessed. My daughter’s lifeless body. I couldn’t discern time, but suddenly a fireman lifted me off the ground and he and Ms. Holly helped me back to the house. He gently asked, “Who is she to you?” and I said, “That’s my baby.” He placed me on the pebble-lined driveway and I sat smoothing the rocks in a trancelike manner.
Ms. Holly kickstarted communication by calling Momma, who was in California. Even through my haze and her broken speech, I heard Ms. Holly say, “Lynne, Maddie’s no longer with us.” I was eviscerated by the sadness as tears streamed down my face. I rose. My baby was already in the ambulance, on her way to the hospital. I knew we had to get to her. Jamie and I shared a look. In our wet clothes and shoeless, Jamie and I ran for the car. As we pulled away, Mr. J’s wide-eyed stare of devastation gutted me. Just before we hit the main road, a fireman signaled to us to stop. “They got a pulse!” We drove off knowing we needed to get to her and clinging to the hope that her heart would keep beating.
Jamie drove us as quickly and safely as possible, his view blurred by tears. We didn’t say much as we drove, just occasionally glanced at each other. We pulled into the carport of the hospital’s emergency entrance, bolting from the car, not bothering to turn the engine off or even shut the doors. We ran in screaming to anyone who would listen, “Our daughter was brought here. Where is she?” I’m not certain who, but I think a nurse said, “They just air-lifted a little girl from here. She’s been taken to the trauma center in New Orleans.” We were so confused by the timing but so grateful for the update. Jamie made a call to his business associate, Andrea, as we quickly drove to our house to grab some dry clothes. She insisted on driving us to University Medical Center. Her husband, a volunteer fireman, placed an emergency light on the top of his car and drove us the forty-five-minute ride that felt like hours. I used Jamie’s phone to call Daddy and Casper’s mom. My phone was lying at the bottom of the pond. Daddy had coincidentally just landed from California and planned to meet us at the hospital. Casper’s mom’s words comforted me. “I’ll call Casper. It will be okay. We will pray for her, Jamie Lynn.”
We had no information at this point. Not knowing was crippling. Jamie and I just sat and held on to each other as we cried. His tears streamed down his face as he whispered, “You should have never met me. We wouldn’t be here.” I had no words to give him, so I held him tighter to convey my love and support. With each passing mile, my fixed stare remained skyward. I had this dreadful feeling Maddie would think she had been abandoned—that we weren’t desperately trying to save her. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Momma tried.” Again, I’m not sure if I said the words out loud.
We walked into the trauma center and tried to garner as much information as possible. Moments later we were told that a nameless girl had been brought in. The nurse checked something on her computer and looked at us. “I believe your daughter is here. They are working on her now.” Right there in the lobby area, Jamie and I simultaneously dropped to our knees and began praying. “Save her, God. Please bring her back to me. I don’t care how or in what condition. Just bring her back.” I couldn’t hear Jamie’s prayers over my own, but I know he was pleading for the same thing. Almost immediately, Jamie and I were taken to Maddie’s room in the ICU.
The tears started anew. Maddie was intubated and endless tubes and lines extended from every part of her. There were no fewer than five machines performing different functions. But she was here. She was still here. Hope bloomed. Instinctively, I grabbed on to her where I could and held on with everything I had. “Baby, Momma’s here! You’re here!” My prayers recommenced—the promises, the bargaining, and the pleading. I was interrupted by the doctors, who came in to ask us questions about the accident. We told them what we could, and they provided us with her latest test results. The lead doctor spoke frankly. “We can’t say much at the moment. Her scans don’t show any damage or injury, but she’s not responding to our pain or reflex tests. The next twenty-four hours are crucial and will tell us more.” Jamie and I joined hands and began the first of many hours in deep prayer.
Jamie’s good friend Dr. Donald Woolridge, a hospital radiologist, read the scans too and agreed that nothing appeared abnormal. His corroboration of the other doctors’ findings gave us just a little more hope.
Daddy, whose flight had just landed in New Orleans, was the first to arrive. He was visibly shaken up as I took him to Maddie. He fell to his knees in distress and began moaning. “Oh, baby girl.” He held her small hand and cried. Watching him fall apart unnerved me. Maddie brought so much joy to everyone and acknowledging the pain this was causing broke me a little more. I needed spiritual support.
“I want my priest.” It came out unbidden, but it felt right.
A support team was gathering in the ICU waiting room. Dazed, I walked into the room to thank everyone who was there. My friend Brandi explained that she had been there for a while. I looked at her in disbelief wondering how she knew what was happening. “How? I don’t understand.” She brought me in for a hug and whispered, “My stepdad is a sheriff, remember?” She went on to explain that he had been listening to the scanner and heard about a child, a water accident, and the location off the Fluker-Greensburg exit. “He had a feeling, because of the area reported. He verified the information and called me immediately. I wanted to be here ASAP to help in any way I can.” I thought, Oh wow, the blessings of living in a small town.
Time is elusive in times of trauma, but at some point Casper entered the small area and ignored everything but her. His agonized expression and tears, coupled with his uneasiness, prompted me to hug him. He held me to him. “Jamie Lynn, it’s going to be okay. This wasn’t anyone’s fault. It was an accident.” Both Jamie and I found comfort in his words. Casper was clear-headed, and I was relieved I didn’t have to worry about his sobriety. Daddy, Casper, Jamie, and I stood around the bed praying and doing our best just to keep it together. I got word that Father Mark was in the waiting room. The ICU had strict rules about the number of visitors. But with Maddie’s unresponsiveness I demanded to have Father Mark brought in. I was so much in denial I didn’t realize he was actually going to perform last rites. He anointed her head with oil and when he said, “Holy Spirit,” Maddie began to thrash. Her arms and legs were flailing vigorously. I started to scream.
“Someone, get a doctor now! She’s still with us.” Jamie came to me, and we hugged with a renewed sense of hope. But what happened next was difficult to watch. The staff bustled in and tied Maddie down. They administered a sedative to place her in a medically induced coma to keep her from hurting herself and to allow for further healing. Her life force was temporarily extinguished, and once the nurses stepped from the room, we resumed praying. The difference this time—our words were laced with hope.
The hours of trauma seemed to last days. Maddie was motionless, but we still felt like she was with us. Casper acknowledged that as Maddie’s primary caregivers, Jamie and I should be the ones to stay with her overnight. Daddy offered to get Casper a room at the nearby hotel, and he graciously accepted. They made their way out and we just stood motionless before Jamie pulled a chair as close to Maddie as he could while I lay across the foot of her bed. We waited and silently prayed. In the hospital the concept of time felt like it had expanded and contracted. Nurses seemed to come in every few minutes. Maddie’s breathing machine was repeatedly checked and adjusted. Medications were administered hourly via an IV that was inserted into her neck. There was a terrible-sounding apparatus that appeared to suck the pond muck from her lungs and stomach. With each vacuum brrrm, I was forced to recount those minutes in the water.
From the moment Momma received the devastating news from Ms. Holly, she and Britney had tried everything to get Momma a flight to Louisiana. It didn’t take long for them to realize it was Super Bowl Sunday, and just about every private jet was chartered for the event. They continued to check for hours, and miraculously, a commercial seat opened up and Momma landed sometime in the evening. I wasn’t sure of the time, only that it was late when I heard a commotion outside Maddie’s room. One of the nurses was saying, “Is that Governor John Bel Edwards escorting those women?” I smiled, knowing that Momma was here. Momma’s eyes went wide when she saw Maddie’s little body in the bed.
“Oh, Jamie Lynn.” Her pained expression deepened when I escorted her to the bed. “Look, Momma—here she is.” Momma had no idea what transpired since the phone call from Ms. Holly. Momma was devastated. She was trying to stay strong, but it cost her. Momma looked from me to Jamie in confusion, trying to reconcile her grief with our optimism. “Jamie Lynn, I don’t understand.” As she struggled to keep her emotions in check, I quickly filled her in on the events of the past several hours. In turn, Momma described how Donna Edwards, the governor’s wife and one of Momma’s close friends, had arranged to meet her on the tarmac and provided a police escort to the hospital. Ms. Donna handed me an offering of blessed crosses, rosaries, and food. Governor Edwards shared some kind words: “Jamie Lynn, your little girl has our prayers and support.” What a humbling moment.
After Momma visited with Maddie—crying and praying along with us—exhaustion set in and she retired to her hotel to rest.
In a kind of meditative state, I prayed throughout the night. I prayed to God and repeated the same promises from earlier in the day. Please bring her back to us. It’s not supposed to be this way. We’ll deal with whatever we must to have her back. Just… please. Other prayers came in the form of promises. Baby, come back to me. I promise I’ll give you that baby you’ve been begging for—just come back. Jamie stayed up all night gazing at Maddie as if he could will her back to us. Once in a while I heard him mumble, “How did this happen?”
The next day brought more tests. She continued to lie motionless throughout the morning. In the afternoon, the doctor ordered another MRI, only this time, with contrast. The many machines and tubes made rolling her down the hall a cumbersome task. Jamie and I walked hand in hand alongside the gurney. Looks of pity came from every person we locked eyes with. The trauma unit rarely saw such a young patient and that realization reignited my fear. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed down the emotion. With strengthened resolve, I opened my eyes and glanced at Maddie to find hers open and fixed on mine. Breathlessly I whispered, “Jamie, look. She’s in there. I can see her. She’s coming back to us.” The nurse noticed her attempt to rouse and readministered a sedative to keep her asleep. The act suppressed my happiness, but I understood why it was necessary. I looked at Jamie and we both smiled hesitantly. I whispered, “She’s there, right? You saw her, the eye contact?” We hugged with renewed hope.
The MRI came back clear, yet doctors were still baffled at Maddie’s lack of responsiveness to their tests. No one could explain it. But I saw her look straight into my eyes and connect with me. She was coming back to us. Jamie and I resumed our positions at Maddie’s bedside, praying continuously.
Everyone who was a part of our lives, from business associates to friends and clergymen, came together in support to pray for Maddie and provide just about anything we could possibly need. We had so many people working unknown to us, who provided everything from food to prayer circles for our little girl. Our families remained close by, and even though Casper had the legal right to stay by her side, he granted Jamie and me the authority to dictate visits and such. Jamie’s phone had a million messages. Daddy took the necessary steps to keep the press at bay. Daddy told Ms. Lou, “It’s not a good idea to come to New Orleans.” My focus and energy were on Maddie. But deep down, I did still want my brother and sister there to support us. I wouldn’t let anything keep me from them in a time of need, not even if someone told me it would keep the press out. Still, we could feel the love and prayers all around us. I couldn’t explain the sensation, only that we all experienced a palpable energy.
Sometime around 4:00 p.m. Jamie, Momma, Casper, and I sat and performed our bedside vigil. Our eyes were heavy with exhaustion. The major tests remained negative, and Maddie was just beginning to respond to the manual pain and reflex assessments. I looked up, and my eyes widened at the laser-focused expression of attention on Jamie’s face. He was looking into Maddie’s open eyes. She painstakingly raised her finger with the pulse oximeter on it and pointed the small red light at Jamie. He smiled and said, “E.T., phone home.” She held her finger up for a moment longer and he said it again. “E.T., phone home.” At that moment I knew she was definitely coming back to us. She closed her eyes, and the nurse gave her more sleep medication. The team of doctors decided Maddie was strong enough to move to Children’s Hospital New Orleans, where they could begin to assess the extent of her injuries. It seemed so quick, but the trauma team felt confident that Maddie was ready for the next step in her recovery.
The discharge papers were coordinated, and the lengthy reports of her care were forwarded to Children’s Hospital. Jamie and I couldn’t help but delight in the transfer. This meant she was definitely getting better. Doctors didn’t say anything in regard to her prognosis, only that they had done all they could for her at the trauma center. A part of me ignored their words and grasped the memory of her opened eyes to power me through.
Maddie’s transfer was a complicated and expensive undertaking. The intubation tube and breathing pump needed to remain uninterrupted during the switch from electric to battery. All her other tubes and wires had to stay intact. A small team from Children’s Hospital was assembled to transfer her and there wasn’t any room for me in the ambulance. Brandi offered to take us for the five-mile ride. Jamie sat up front and I slid into the back. The change in environment freed our minds and Jamie checked his phone.
“Jamie Lynn, you’re not going to believe this—but I have a recording of everything.” At first, I didn’t understand. Jamie had dropped his phone in his quick response to Maddie’s accident, and it had landed facedown with the video camera still recording. He tapped play. It was haunting. It started with the sound of running followed by primal screams of horror. Alone in the back seat, I started to tremble and quickly pleaded with him to turn it off. I finally got ahold of myself, but only because we had to go inside and attend to Maddie.
The new team was assembled in the ICU at Children’s Hospital to discuss the next phase of Maddie’s treatment. Recovery—the word was like an answered prayer. The natural course was to determine what was going on with her as a result of the trauma. They asked a lot of questions about the accident. One of the physicians inquired about the amount of time she was under water. Jamie pulled out his phone. He studied the screen. Astonished, he said, “Minimally, six and a half minutes.”
Over the next day, the team conducted a number of tests to help determine her brain function. Nothing seemed to be wrong, and the doctors decided to reduce the strength of the breathing pump to get Maddie breathing on her own. The process, which occurred over days, was difficult to watch. Periodically, Maddie would thrash and try to pull every tube and wire from her body. She would tire and then the whole thing would start again. The sedative medications were eliminated. We were constantly in motion to keep her from pulling at the equipment. When we told her to leave her IVs in, she would listen, but then forget. Then she tugged at them and the whole process would start again. The struggle and the noises she made were awful. It was killing me to watch her suffer and each episode reminded me of the prayers and wishes I’d made.
Maddie’s throat was sore, and making sounds, let alone speaking, was a challenge. But when she did speak, her words were strange and nonsensical. Once she fully regained her voice, she blabbered nonstop for hours. She sounded like someone else; her tone and manner were completely different from her own as she described horses and a man with a tall hat. Maddie’s short-term memory loss had me repeatedly answering the question, “Why am I here?” every few minutes.
The doctor returned to check on Maddie and get an idea of how things were progressing.
“How’s it going, Maddie?”
She replied with a belligerent tone.
The doctor glanced around the room at everyone assembled. He pointed to each person and asked her if she recognized them. He then pointed to me and asked again, “Do you know who this is, Maddie?”
“That’s Carrie Underwood. But she kinda looks like my momma in those clothes.”
I was stunned into a wretched silence and pasted a smile on my face. As soon as I could escape to the bathroom, I closed the door and cried heaving sobs of sadness. My baby doesn’t know me. I cried some more but then recalled my prayers. I’ll take her any way I can get her. With a deep sigh, I repeated, “I’ll take her even if she doesn’t know me.” I went back to her bedside and tried to move on. The nurses were doing their best to reassure me that it was still too early to know the extent of her memory loss and that it could be only temporary. My relief was tear inducing when later in the day Maddie nonchalantly said, “Momma,” as if she never forgot who I was.
Maddie’s behavior continued to be erratic for hours. She was constantly trying to pull everything off—her IV lines, electrode stickers, and tape. She couldn’t remember one minute to the next. We would start a DVD she selected and seconds later she’d demand we turn it off. She’d agree to leave the IVs in and moments later she tugged to yank them out. This continued for long hours into the evening and though it tried our patience, Jamie and I welcomed the task.
But then, hours turned into days. Maddie hadn’t been able to sleep for the past two days, and we hadn’t in longer than three. Maddie was moody and temperamental. And truthfully, as the hours passed and she continued to tear at her wires, I started to go a little crazy myself. Sometimes I’d catch her staring at me with a faraway look in her eyes. At the next check, Brandi was standing at the end of Maddie’s bed as I begged them to give her something to sleep. They replied kindly, “We can’t. We need to establish a baseline for her function. Medications will interfere with the process.” Maddie looked right at Brandi and mouthed, “Get me out of here!”
We were late into the fourth night and Maddie still wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t bring myself to leave her for any amount of time and the exhaustion was setting in. I stomped out to the on-duty nurse to fuss about Maddie’s sleeplessness and irritability, ignoring my own fatigue. “Listen to me. I need you to help my little girl sleep! She’s past the point of exhaustion and between the constant check on vitals and those damn machines going off—sleep is impossible! PLEASE. DO. SOMETHING!”
Jamie had the patience of a saint and recognized I was starting to experience my own type of sleep psychosis. He and Casper pleaded with me to go take a shower and a nap. “You’ve got to take care of you, Jamie Lynn.”
I relented and took a much-needed break. I knew they would take care of her.
Jamie lay with Maddie throughout the night, and they talked about all kinds of things. She still couldn’t remember stuff for very long and asked the same questions repeatedly. But Jamie’s calm soothed her. Sometime the following morning, Maddie finally fell asleep. When I woke up to find her sleeping peacefully, part of my anxiety was alleviated. Seeing her so comfortable was one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen.
At 8:00 a.m. it was time for a staff shift change. The movement about the room woke Maddie. When she looked over at me, she nonchalantly asked, “Hey, Momma. Why am I here?” This time when I explained, she was able to remember. A few minutes later she said, “Hey, Momma? You going to give me that baby now?” Tears filled my eyes and I held her to me.
Maddie was a bit of a Ten Second Tom, a character from one of my favorite Drew Barrymore films, 50 First Dates. Maddie would ask or say something, forget it instantaneously, and repeat herself moments later. The team announced we could move out of the ICU. We were all beaming with happiness, despite Maddie’s memory issues. With each hour, Maddie continued to improve, and she was able to sleep. Once in a while she asked again why she was in the hospital, but it wasn’t as frequent as before. She began drinking fluids and loved going via wheelchair to the kitchen area for the Popsicles she couldn’t get enough of. Moving and seeing her happy had us going back and forth for Popsicles several times a day. After the fourth trip, Maddie vomited. We panicked and called for the nurse, who explained that what happened was perfectly normal after not eating for days and the trauma Maddie had suffered. She suggested slowing down on the Popsicles to give her digestive tract a chance to recover. Jamie and I simultaneously exhaled in relief.
Within thirty-six hours of moving to the large hospital room, we received astonishing news. Maddie’s doctor looked her over, flipped through the chart, and unceremoniously said, “I think you are ready to go home tomorrow.” My immediate thought was, What? How can that be?
“We’ve done all we can do for her here. Her vitals are stable. She hasn’t suffered a visible brain injury, and besides some memory issues, which I presume will resolve over time, she’s good to go.”
At first, I was shocked and, honestly, a little nervous too. He explained about potential therapies and follow-up appointments. As he spoke, I felt my confidence rise and realized with joy that we would be just fine. Our friend Giuseppe had been working behind the scenes making sure the waiting room always had food and drinks. He went to Target and bought Maddie clothes to wear home from the hospital. His attention to detail was impressive, and Maddie had everything she could possibly need. I helped Maddie take a shower, and it was then that I got a good look at her shrunken, weary body. Remarkably, she barely had a scratch anywhere except for her IV sites—such minor wounds for such a horrendous event.
The word spread to family and friends about Maddie’s release. Everyone, including the physicians, agreed Maddie’s recovery was miraculous. There was no other word for it. Five days after almost losing my daughter, we prayed in gratitude, thanked the staff, and drove the forty-five minutes home.
When I remember the events of February 2017, I first give thanks to God for returning Maddie to us. I learned the power of prayers and that miracles actually happen. The extensive support of friends, family, and medical professionals, coupled with faith, provided everything we needed to manage in such a traumatic time. At first, I focused on Maddie and her recovery. For the first several weeks, we had to stay vigilant about her taking her antibiotics and building up her strength. Maddie was at a high risk of developing pneumonia. Doctors were surprised she didn’t develop the infection while in the hospital.
Maddie received stacks of cards from classmates and friends. A mass was dedicated to her at church and people for miles around prayed for her safety and well-being. The power of faith and prayers were ever present during her ordeal and we could feel the love all around us. Friends and strangers came together in coordinated efforts to see that not only our needs were met, but that those of our family were met as well. Sheriff Edwards—brother to the governor—and his family, Brandi, Diane, and Giuseppe, who came to the hospital daily, served vital roles helping us manage. Our families, including Casper, were selfless and giving. They took action and prayed along with everyone in our community. I feel like together, we willed Maddie back to us.
When her health started to stabilize, I became obsessed with speaking to and thanking the first responders who acted so heroically and saved critical moments that made all the difference in Maddie’s outcome. Through Brandi’s father I was able to get the names of the EMTs and reach out to everyone who helped us.
Once Maddie made a full recovery, I felt it was time to speak with her heroes. I thanked them profusely, knowing my words would never convey the extent of my gratitude. For Maddie’s birthday, I invited the EMTs, John and Victoria, to the celebration, and I had a chance to talk to them. I wanted to understand as much as I could about that day. It was my way of processing the trauma and making sense of a miracle. When they arrived, it was difficult to see them in this environment. Memories flooded my brain, but instead I focused on John and Victoria. John looked exactly as I would expect a first responder to look. He’s a good-sized man but possesses a sweetness too. Victoria, who comes off so casual yet capable, was warm and easy to be around. They were Maddie’s very own guardian angels, and in turn, mine and Jamie’s too.
“John, can you tell what you remember?” I asked.
“I had to make critical decisions in milliseconds,” John said. “She was nonresponsive, and CPR wasn’t working. I picked her up and ran while pounding on her back in case she had something lodged in her airway—which she didn’t.”
I asked questions, eager to learn the details of that day. “Did you use the paddles? A defibrillator?”
“No. We ran an IV line and I instinctively intubated her, knowing she needed oxygen. For a moment I didn’t know if she’d make it. I may have skipped a couple steps—but I did what I thought was right at the moment.”
It was only in talking to the EMTs that I learned the specifics of Maddie’s coordinated rescue and all of the freakishly fortunate elements that came together to help her survive. I learned on weekdays, EMTs are situated at different exits on the interstate. On February 5, they happened to be stationed off exit 53, one mile from my in-laws’ home. Because Holly had called 911 immediately, within eight minutes of the accident, the ambulance was on-site. If they had been anywhere else, the outcome would have been very different. But John and Victoria’s quick response and rapid decision making was just the first of many elements that saved Maddie’s life. On the way to the hospital, they radioed in the situation, warning the team at the hospital about the severity of the drowning and timing. A medical transport helicopter, AirLife, was activated and already at the hospital when Maddie arrived. By the time Jamie and I pulled up to the emergency room, the helicopter was en route to New Orleans.
Months later, at Maddie’s honor roll assembly, a man approached me, and I learned he had piloted the helicopter that took Maddie to the trauma center. He’d heard the age, description, and location of the accident over the radio, and realized the injured girl was the same age as his own daughter, Madison, and they were in the same grade at the same school. He said, “I spent the entire flight praying for your daughter. I felt connected to her, knowing she and my daughter are the same age.” Maddie joined our conversation, and he gifted her with a pair of AirLife wings that to this day she keeps displayed in her room.
Miracles were all around her from start to finish. I learned of several other key factors in Maddie’s survival months later. A large rainfall had occurred the night before the accident, followed by an unseasonably cold day. The air and water temperatures, which were well below the normal range, played a key role in Maddie’s recovery. Unusually cold temperatures inhibit bacteria growth, and this explains why she never developed a lung or bodily infection. The low temperature helped Maddie as she lost consciousness and stopped breathing. The cold may have helped prevent damage to her brain.
The truth remains, every factor—time, temperature, first responders, and Maddie’s own body—came together in perfect synchronicity to bring her back to us. Me? I still think God played a huge role in coordinating the elements that saved her life. That and the thousands of prayers to bring her back to us.
The experience of almost losing Maddie compelled me to take inventory of my own life and reprioritize. I pride myself on being a good mom. One who puts the needs of my daughter first and focuses on my family. But in the few years leading up to the accident, I had become engrossed in becoming a well-regarded performer and singer. I yearned to be the best at what I was doing and show Maddie that I could be the best mom, wife, and performer. What Maddie’s accident helped me learn pretty quickly was that professional acceptance and esteem were superficial pursuits. I was reminded that our lives are truly a fragile gift, and I needed to flip my priorities.
But I didn’t discover this on my own. Jamie is Catholic and Maddie attends a Catholic school, and after the accident, I made a commitment to myself and God, and backed it up by officially converting to Catholicism. The timing was perfect for me, as I had just discovered I was pregnant. In some ways I felt like I had to pay penance to show my gratitude. Father Mark, who had been with us during Maddie’s ordeal, was the program’s instructor. I dedicated myself to the three periods and four steps of RCIA, the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults, which is a multistep process where you study the sacraments of Catholicism. Several people start the process and only a few make it all the way through to Baptism, Eucharist, and Confirmation. It took almost a year to complete, and I felt compelled by the blessings I received and my devotion to my faith to follow through with the program. The curriculum challenged us to think about our beliefs and the events that shaped who we are. The workshops gave me a chance to share Maddie’s story, and more often than not, people found it difficult to assign reason to her outcome. Faith and prayer have always played a huge role in my life. Science and medicine helped save her, but I believe it was more than that.
As I got deeper into the program, I came to fully embrace my faith, and I began to understand I have no control and I need to put my trust in God. Those aren’t just words to me. I walk the walk. This wasn’t an epiphany or an “aha” moment. My change in perspective happened over time. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when I felt it; it was a feeling that grew within me, and it began to permeate my thoughts and approach to life. RCIA is rigorous and long. Many people drop out before the end, which is a pity because the more work you do, the greater the result. The shift in perspective ran so much deeper than I expected it to. By relinquishing that need to have control, I noticed that my anxiety level plummeted, and I was able to function free of medicinal interventions. That’s not to say I don’t have the occasional panic attack or moment of anxiety. I just resolve them differently.
My confidence grew, and for the first time in my life I felt an inner peace that far surpassed any sense of safety I had previously experienced. It gave new meaning to my existence. For those who are reading this and thinking, Seriously?, let me explain. My faith helped me realign my priorities. I was able to discard petty grievances and long-held fears about being good enough. It was freeing. My focus became my family, who always come first. I also developed a strong praying practice. I attend church almost every Sunday, no matter where I am in the world, and I pray not just for me, but for others too. I pray for all the prayers that were gifted to Maddie. My devotion sets an example for my children. We need to believe in something bigger than ourselves, and our significance is rooted in our purpose. My purpose is to simplify and abandon the meaningless pressure of perfectionism and live in a manner that feels authentic to me. My previous insecurities, the ones that related to how successful I became professionally or recognition for my work, faded away. I understood that living authentically, from the heart and with integrity, provided the peace I had been without for so long.
Jamie and I made good on our promise to Maddie. All of us experienced overwhelming joy when we learned I was pregnant. I’d never seen Maddie smile so wide or felt Jamie’s love more. I fulfilled my end of the bargain to God, and we welcomed baby Ivey into the family the following April. Ivey owned us from the moment she arrived. She has an infectious nature and is energetic. Every Spears says she is a mini-me. Momma is always saying, “She’s exactly like you were when you were a toddler, Jamie Lynn.” Ivey’s birth reinforced the lessons I had learned in church and bolstered my faith in God. Her existence added a profound strength to our family’s loving bond.