Fighting for David Leone Nunley with Dean Merrill, Tyndale House Publishers Page 4 of 4

Around the dinner hour that Friday evening, Dr. Hill asked to talk with us. His face was taut as he said, “The intracranial pressure is now moving into the 40s. I have to tell you, this young man is going to die unless we release that pressure surgically. The cortex-the outer layer of the brain that is so strategic in receiving input from the eyes, ears, and other senses, then deciding what to do with it-is being pushed so hard against the inside of the skull that it's going to shut down altogether if we don't do something. The option is to go in and remove some of the damaged tissue as well as the buildup of fluid, thereby allowing for more space.

“But-the risks of this kind of operation are major. He might not survive the procedure. He might survive but never wake up. He might be left in what we call a 'persistent vegetative state.' On the other hand, we might be more successful than we think. It's impossible to know at this stage.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. They were talking about taking out part of David's brain! I could hardly fathom something so ghastly. But if we said no . . . we might lose him altogether.

I looked up at Dr. Hill and asked the familiar question that doctors hear frequently: “Well . . . if this were your son, what would you do?”

He quietly responded, “I would go for the surgery.”

I answered, “Then I say we go for the surgery. But could we have just a little time as a family to pray about this?”

“Time is definitely of the essence,” Dr. Hill said. “Five minutes?”

I nodded, and with that, he walked away.

We looked at each other with blank faces. Nobody wanted to speak first. Were we going to lose David either way? So many unknowns.

“To me, this represents our only hope,” I volunteered.

Dale spoke next. “I agree.”

Bud looked up and said, in his careful way, “I'm with you, Mom.”

Lori, being the new in-law in the family, kept quiet.

Rob said, “I believe in a mother's instincts. If you feel this is what we need to do, Mom, let's do it.”

We then got down on our knees, the five of us in a circle there in the waiting room, and prayed together. We pleaded with God to somehow use this surgery to spare David's life.

Meanwhile, the surgical team was springing into action. There was a flurry of preparation; it was obvious they had no time to waste. Soon David's bed was being wheeled out of the ICU and toward the elevator that would take him to the surgical floor.

“You can come along,” an orderly said to me as he waited for the doors to open. Someone handed me a consent form, and I scribbled my signature.

Dale and I squeezed into the elevator alongside our son as the orderly pressed the button. We began to move. I looked down once again at David's vacant face and his closed eyes. I lifted my hands to sweep them back and forth a foot or so above his body as I softly prayed through my tears, “Oh, Lord, please help him get through this surgery. He's in such a critical state. Please help Dr. Hill. Please cause this to help David somehow. Please, Lord . . . please.”

Then the doors opened into the surgical wing, and he was gone.

Excerpted from Fighting for David by Leone Nunley and Dean Merrill. Copyright (c) 2005 by Leone Nunley and Dean Merrill. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. www.fightingfordavid.com.

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