Shooting Victim Petra Anderson
At Columbine, I have seen this before. But not up close. As a church
pastor in Denver, I have worked as a chaplain with several police and
fire departments. I was privileged to counsel parents just hours after
the Littleton Columbine shootings. However, in this new tragedy at the
Aurora Theater
Dark Night shooting, one of the victims was a 22
year old woman from my church, Petra Anderson (pronounced Pay-tra).
Petra went to the movies with two young friends who are biking across
America. You and I have been inundated with news about what happened
next. A joyful movie turned into bloody, unbelievable chaos. Petra was
hit four times with a shot-gun blast, three shots into her arm and one
bullet which entered her brain. This a bit of Petra’s miracle story.
With awesome people from our caring and pastoral team, I spent all
day Friday in the ICU with Petra and her family. Her injuries were
severe, and her condition was critical. A bullet had entered Petra’s
face through her nose, and then traveled up through her brain until
stopping at the back of her skull. The doctors prior to surgery were
concerned, because so much of the brain had been traversed by the
bullet. Many areas of brain function were involved. They were hoping to
keep her alive long enough to get her into surgery. The prognosis was
uncertain—if she lived, Petra might struggle with speech, movement, and
thinking due to considerable brain damage. With Kim, Petra’s mother (who
is in the final stages of terminal cancer), we simply cried, hugged,
and prayed.
It is pressed into my memory now. Motion and emotion…
Other families come and go into the ICU waiting room. Some sit with
us, and we talk. Others are visited by doctors with “Family Advocates”
in tow. The families listen, sob, and then are moved like stunned cattle
to a more private space to grieve. We pray. Petra is finally taken into
surgery, using two different surgical teams. One team of neurosurgeons
will open up the back of her skull to remove the bullet and clean up
brain damage as best they can. Another ENT-specialty surgical team will
then work through Petra’s nose by scope to follow the bullet’s path up
into her brain. Their hope is to remove bone fragments, clean up
damaged brain tissue, and reseal her brain to reduce infection.
If you have lived any of your days in a hospital waiting room, you
know how long the enduring process is. It has a woeful pattern to it.
Sit. Walk. Grab a drink. Sit. Walk. Answer a phone call. Sit. Walk. Hug
someone. Sit. Talk to the FBI. Sit. Pick at the food. Sit. Walk. Go down
the hall, but not too far because you’re afraid to miss something.
Back. Hug. Pray. Sit. Sit. A picture of a five year old waiting for next
Christmas from January 1
st comes to my mind. FOREVER. Only this feels worse: a heavy forever, with no promise of presents, Santa, or good news at the end.
Petra Anderson and her world class violin.
After the waiting drags for over five hours, tired doctors and nurses
spill back into the room, one or two at a time. I look for “Family
Advocates” but can find none. I exhale. The doctors update us: “It went
well, and she’s recovering now. We found very little damage to the
brain, and got the bullet out cleanly. It went better than we hoped
for.” Each brings a warrior’s smile, and a bit of
information—information that we turn into hope as we regurgitate it over
the next hours. Still, the medical team remains professional and
reserved, “Something might still go wrong. We just need to wait and see
if she makes it for the next 48 hours.”
Tears and thank you’s abound. We are so thankful for these men and
women. We hug. Everyone hugs. Then, round two. Sit. Wait. Pray. Fully
dressed people cuddle into small snails and try to sleep on the floor.
Some are shuttled to a room donated by the Holiday Inn across the
street. Thank you, Lord, for every little thing. We sit. We pray. “We’ll
understand better tomorrow.”
Petra is moved back to ICU. She looks, surprisingly, wonderful. With a
small hole in her nose, and her arm wrapped, she almost looks
uninjured. She is medicated and sleeping when I come to visit her on
Saturday. I sit, talk, and pray quietly with Kim amid the darkened room,
lit by glowing medical screens and power switches. Nurses, like quiet
soldiers posted on guard, come in, march attentively through the
machines, and go out. These men and women really care. Finally, one of
the surgeons comes in to check on Petra. He has had some sleep, and
looks more like a movie star this time. As Petra sleeps, he retells the
story of the surgery, and we ask questions. The doctor reads the
perfect script, as if he is on Hallmark Hall of Fame. He fills us in on
the miracle. Honestly, he doesn’t call it that, he just uses words like
“happily” and “wonderfully” and “in a very fortunate way” and “luckily”
and “we were really surprised by that.” Kim and I know a miracle when
we see it.
It seems as if the bullet traveled through Petra’s brain without
hitting any significant brain areas. The doctor explains that Petra’s
brain has had from birth a small “defect” in it. It is a tiny channel of
fluid running through her skull, like a tiny vein through marble, or a
small hole in an oak board, winding from front to rear. Only a CAT scan
would catch it, and Petra would have never noticed it.
But in Petra’s case, the shotgun buck shot, maybe even the size used
for deer hunting, enters her brain from the exact point of this defect.
Like a marble through a small tube, the defect channels the bullet from
Petra’s nose through her brain. It turns slightly several times, and
comes to rest at the rear of her brain. And in the process, the bullet
misses all the vital areas of the brain. In many ways, it almost
misses the brain
itself. Like a giant BB though a straw created in Petra’s brain before
she was born, it follows the route of the defect. It is channeled in
the least harmful way. A millimeter in any direction and the channel is
missed. The brain is destroyed. Evil wins a round.
As
he shares, the doctor seems taken aback. It is an odd thing to have a
surgeon show a bit of wonder. Professionally, these guys own the
universe, it seems, and take everything in stride. He is obviously
gifted as a surgeon, and is kind in his manner. “It couldn’t have gone
better. If it were my daughter,” he says quietly, glancing around to see
if any of his colleagues might be watching him, “I’d be ecstatic. I’d
be dancing a jig.” He smiles. I can’t keep my smile back, or the tears
of joy. In Christianity we call it
prevenient grace: God
working ahead of time for a particular event in the future. It’s just
like the God I follow to plan the route of a bullet through a brain long
before Batman ever rises. Twenty-two years before.
While we’re talking, Petra awakes. She opens her eyes, and sits up,
“Mom.” Movie-star doctor spins to grab her, to protect her from falling.
The nurse assures him she’s been doing this for a while. He talks to
her, and she talks back. He asks questions, and Petra has the right
answers. “Where do you hurt, Petra?” “All over.” Amazed, but
professional, he smiles and leaves the set shaking his head. I am so
thankful for this man.
Petra is groggy and beat up, but she is herself. Honestly, I look worse before my morning coffee. “I’m thirsty,” she proclaims.
“You want an ice cube, honey?” Kim replies.
“Please.” Wow. She lays down, back to sleep, a living miracle who
doesn’t even know it yet. Good flowering out of the refuse pile of a
truly dark night. “Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper.
Kim and her daughter.
Petra, you are amazing. Kim, you, too, are amazing. I am so proud of you both. But God, you are in a league of your own. (Duh.)
There is much ahead. More surgerys. Facial reconstruction, perhaps.
And for Kim, chemo therapy to stretch every moment out of life. But life
remains.The ending is yet to be written for this family.
One final note: I am told Petra will take her first steps today. Time for the miracle to go for a walk.
Kim and Petra need our help. For more on the Andersons, or to help with their medical costs, please visit here. This is a great site.
