Today is the twentieth anniversary of one of the most dreadful days of my life. During Christmas 1982, the Denver area had experienced one of the greatest single snowfalls of all time. Those of us who lived through the "Blizzard of '82" still remember the thousands of passengers stranded at the old Stapelton airport for several days as drifts over 8' high closed all of the runways, and the ouster of Denver Mayor Bill McNichols after his Public Works department failed to completely clear even the main streets of the city for over a month. Christmas Day 1983 dawned with a pretty layer of snow on the ground, but nothing of the depth that we saw in 1982. The temperatures that winter were intensely cold, however, with several evenings dropping to nearly 20 degrees below freezing (Fahrenheit). It was so cold that our beloved old peach tree in the back yard at our small house in north Boulder froze to death during one of those frosty nights.

While it was cold outside, our Christmas celebrations in 1983 were wonderful. Nanette and I had been married for five years, and had been blessed with a daughter, Rowan Amber Rozanski, in April of 1980, and a second daughter, Aleta Bronwyn Rozanski, in October of 1982. Our young family was joined at Christmas that year by Nanette's parents, Bill and Mary Furman, who drove to Boulder from their home in Alliance, Nebraska. As per usual at our house, we had a wonderful Christmas tree, with presents piled high underneath. With a warm pine fire in our living room fireplace, and our wonderful old Labrador retriever, Shadow, searching everywhere for dropped tidbits, it was just about as idyllic a family Christmas as anyone could ever imagine.

It was during the evening of December 25th, 1983 that our journey through Hell began. It started when our youngest daughter, Aleta, began to be cranky and irritable. Now Aleta had always been our problem child, with dreadful bouts of screaming colic that kept us awake night after night during the first year of her life. By that evening, however, she was 14 months old, and seemed to have settled down. I remember distinctly that I was playing basketball with Aleta and Rowan in the living room that evening, utilizing a miniature plastic basketball hoop, when Aleta started crying seemingly for no reason. Nanette took her temperature, and was dismayed to discover that she was running a fever of 102 degrees. (click on image for larger view)

By this time of her life, Aleta being ill was no surprise to us. Aside from tormenting us with her nightly screaming jags, Aleta also seemed to have inherited Nanette's propensity toward sinus infections. No sooner would she get over one head cold, than another minor illness would flare up. We had become so inured to this constant runny nose on Aleta's part that we began buying Kleenex tissues in bulk.

What made this illness much different from a run-of-the-mill head cold, however, was that as the evening waned, Aleta's temperature kept rising. When her temperature hit 104 things took a dangerous turn, as she began projective vomiting. Nanette and Mary finally became so concerned that they put her into a lukewarm bathtub full of water in a desperate attempt to bring her temperature down from what had become a potentially damaging 105 degrees. Throughout the night Nanette also used an eyedropper to gently feed Pedialite into her. Blessedly, the cool bath trick and the Pedialite seemed to work. By the next morning, Aleta recovered enough that Bill and Mary felt that it was reasonable for them to return to Nebraska.

After we wished Nanette's folks a pleasant journey home, we drove Aleta over to our family medical clinic. That day was a Saturday, so the clinic was only open until noon with a skeleton staff. Our clinic was owned by a small partnership of doctors, and they took turns manning the fort on Saturday mornings. This rotation becomes critically important to this story because on that particular Saturday morning it just happened that our personal physician, Doctor Peter Ewing, was the only doctor available. Dr. Ewing had been our obstetrician when both Rowan and Aleta had been born, and thus was quite familiar with Aleta's normal symptoms when she had a head cold.

When Dr. Ewing examined Aleta he was, at first, pretty calm. Just another case of a young patient with a snotty nose and mild fever. Then, just as he was about to send us home with only another routine prescription for a standard childhood antibiotic, Dr. Ewing decided to check on last thing. He spent a couple of seconds moving Aleta's head. It was at that moment that I saw Dr. Ewing's facial expression totally change. He told us that we needed to take Aleta immediately across the frozen parking lot to the old hospital that was next door. This building had been constructed as a tuberculosis sanitarium in the 1880's, but had recently been purchased by our local community hospital. By sheer chance, the specialty they choose to shift from their main facility over to the old hospital was pediatrics. Having the children's center just 100 yards away from our clinic probably saved Aleta's life. As we crunched across the ice in the parking lot with poor little three year-old Rowan in tow, we dreaded what was to come next. Dr. Ewing has ordered an emergency spinal tap for Aleta. He believed it was highly likely that she had developed a case of meningitis.

I took Aleta for her spinal tap while Nanette comforted Rowan. Spinal taps are hideous affairs in which a large needle is inserted between the vertebrae to withdraw a sample of cerebral spinal fluid (CSF). Even for an adult (as I discovered this past summer) spinal taps can be incredibly uncomfortable. For a child that was only 14 months old, the pain for Aleta must have been unimaginable. In that instance, however, the spinal tap was absolutely necessary. Five minutes before having the spinal tap administered, Aleta suddenly began experiencing uncontrollable Grand Mal brain seizures. Because she was already in the care of doctors who specialized in children, however, they were able to give her sedatives, which quickly brought the seizures under control. Aleta was now in a drug-induced coma. Had Dr. Ewing not immediately sent us to the hospital, however, and if Aleta would have instead experienced those seizures on the way to pick up her antibiotics prescription, the odds are very high that she would have suffered permanent brain damage, and possibly even died in our car.

Once the results of the spinal tap came back, it was immediately confirmed that Aleta had meningitis. It was explained to us at that point, however, that the situation was far worse than it might otherwise be. The normal type of meningitis that is identified is a viral illness that migrates from the sinuses, into the cerebral spinal fluid. This type of meningitis can make anyone quite ill, but the mortality rate is relatively low. In Aleta's case, however, she had somehow contracted Homopholous bacterial meningitis, which is not only far more deadly form of the illness, but also very contagious. The doctors told us that for the benefit of everyone that they had moved Aleta into an isolation chamber in the pediatrics intensive care unit. She was not coming home with us.

The shock of having Aleta taken away from us was nearly overwhelming. Just 24 hours before, we had all been opening our Christmas presents by our family tree. Now our baby was at death's door. Within the span of just four hours our world had been turned upside down. Rowan didn't completely understand what was going on, but she certainly had picked up on the seriousness of the situation, and clung closely to her mother. Both Nanette and I remember just becoming numb with fear. It was at this point that the doctors told us that we should go home. Aleta was resting comfortably, and there was nothing that we could do now, but wait. There was no point in us waiting at the hospital, however, as the doctors promised to call us if her condition worsened.

When we got home it was about 4 PM, and the sun was already setting behind the mountains to the west of our home. To expend some nervous energy Nanette and I started cleaning up the house. I remember that we had my old stereo record player up quite loud, as we were listening to albums while we vacuumed, and put away presents. One album we particularly liked at the time was the soundtrack from the movie "The Big Chill." It was just as the song "A Whiter Shade of Pale" began playing that I faintly heard our telephone ringing. When I picked up the phone, it was Dr. Ewing. Aleta's seizures had begun again, and the doctors had no way to make them stop. Dr. Ewing told me that they had called for the "Flight For Life" helicopter to transport Aleta to Children's Hospital, in Denver. He wanted me at the hospital right away.

Even today the remembrance of that terrible phone call brings tears to my eyes. I was so, so terribly afraid that I just simply had no idea of what to do. I could barely even bring myself to speak. When I finally drew myself together enough to tell Nanette what Dr. Ewing had said she was also totally overwhelmed. I do not remember even a single moment in our entire lifetime together when we were both so overcome with dread and dismay. She wanted to go with me to the hospital, but she had to take care of little Rowan, so I had to make that awful trip to the hospital by myself.

When I arrived in pediatrics, Dr. Ewing sat me down on an old leather couch, and told me that the "Flight for Life" helicopter wasn't coming. There had been a head-on-accident that evening in a mountain canyon south of Denver, and the powers-that-be had decided that rescuing those injured people took precedence over saving the life of our child. They had instead dispatched a regular ground ambulance from Children's Hospital that was especially equipped to tend to intensive care children. It was scheduled to arrive in about an hour. Dr. Ewing told me that if Aleta lived until the ambulance arrived, and if the doctors at Children's hospital could then somehow bring her seizures under control, she might live. But by this point, however, because the seizures had been so severe, the odds were quite high that Aleta had already sustained permanent brain damage. Aside from mental impairment, the other possible consequences of this brain damage might be blindness, deafness, and extensive paralysis.

After I pulled myself back together from this devastating news, I followed Dr. Ewing to the intensive care ward. They had a small picture window that I could look through and see Aleta in her plastic-draped incubator. Through the crowd of doctors (Dr. Ewing had called in every specialist he knew in the entire City of Boulder...) around her crib, I could see Aleta's small form laying on her back, barely breathing. She was hooked up to numerous machines, and had an IV tube attached to her tiny arm. That dreadful sight was almost enough to cause me to completely collapse. While I am not usually a very religious person, it was at that moment that I offered my life to God, if he would only let my baby live.

After a seemingly interminable delay, the ambulance finally arrived. After Aleta was carefully moved, they took off for Denver with their lights flashing. I followed them in my old Chevy van, grateful for the light they provided because one of my headlights had chosen that evening to go out. We had to drive carefully, as it was particularly cold, and what the sun had melted during the day had refrozen with the onset of darkness. What I clearly remember from that drive is walking across ice in the parking lot that crunched like glass underfoot, and my hands shaking uncontrollably as I tried to put my keys in the ignition switch of the van. (click on image for larger view)

We arrived at Children's Hospital in Denver at about midnight. Aleta was moved into the intensive care unit, and placed in a contagious/isolation room. After doctors looked after her for about an hour, they told me that I could see her. She was now in an ordinary crib, but was attached to a similar array of machines as in Boulder. The doctors told me that I could stay with her now, as they had given her as many sedatives as her body could take, and that whether she lived or died that night depended on forces completely out of their control.

I spent that entire night sitting by Aleta's bed, watching her slowly breathe. One chilling element of that evening was that the room she was in came with a very soft and comfortable wooden rocking chair, with a padded cover. Unfortunately, a small brass plaque at the top of the chair told that it was a bequest from the grandparents of a child who died, probably in that very same room. While I'm sure everyone involved put that chair there with the very best of intentions, the morbid message gave me absolutely no comfort during that awful night.

When a pale winter's sun finally lit up the morning sky on December 27th, 1983, Aleta was still alive. The doctors returned for their morning visit, and were quite pleased. I cannot remember their exact words, but I do recall that they were a bit incredulous at finding her still alive. It seemed that everyone, except me, had given up hope. I'm not sure why, but deep in my heart I knew that Aleta would somehow make it. When the doctors finally gave me the good news, I first called to tell Nanette of the miracle that had happened. Then I drove home through the morning's icy slush to collapse in bed.

Nanette and I spent many hours over the following two weeks sitting by Aleta's side, first at Children's, and then back at the hospital in Boulder. The doctors gradually cut back on her sedatives as her fever abated, and she slowly regained consciousness. With each small improvement we saw an incremental return of Aleta's life. The doctors were positively elated when initial tests showed absolutely no signs of mental impairment. Given the extreme nature of her illness, this incredible outcome was nearly beyond all measure of possibility. But it did happen. Aleta not only survived, but eventually recovered fully. The only possible long-term effect on her health was that she never did get as big as her sisters. But while she may be more petite than her siblings, the power of her personality was far from dimmed by her childhood trauma. This month, Aleta has just finished her first semester at the University of Colorado with a 3.70 GPA. She is now twenty-one years old, and has the entire world ahead of her. She lives with her friend, Wesley Walker, just a mile from our farm in Boulder, Colorado. Her mother and I couldn't be happier or more grateful. (click on image for larger view)

In the two decades that have passed since that dreadful evening that Dr. Ewing called, one thing has not wavered. That is my promise to God that he can have my life at any time in repayment of my debt for the return of Aleta. All my children, and my dear wife Nanette, would elicit that same offer from me under similar circumstances, but that night was an instance where I actually verbalized that commitment. I never go back on a promise. To me, being a good father and husband means being willing to give up everything, including (if necessary) my life, for anyone in my family. I've had a remarkably blessed life, both in terms of my professional career, and in being able to enjoy my family through many years of joys and sorrows. If my debt to God would need to be repaid today, I could leave this world with no sorrows or regrets. I have had an astoundingly good life.

My final thought on this day after Christmas 2003 is to give special thanks to Dr. Peter Ewing. It was only because of his incredible sense of detection that Aleta's illness was discovered in time. Dr. Ewing has since given the people of the City of Boulder twenty more years of his life in dedicated service. While we all certainly appreciate the hundreds of times that he has treated members of our family for various illnesses, the night that he saved Aleta's life will never be forgotten. Doctor Peter Ewing is one of the best of the best.

Merry Christmas!

Chuck Rozanski,
December 26, 2003