Today I have been asked to walk the hospital halls where I suddenly lost my son. The last time I walked these halls, I did it with my husband and son's belongings. I took one step at a time, in and out of Archer's hospital room, eventually exiting the hospital with clothes and toys he no longer needed. I had hoped not to return for a long time. Both Avery and Otto have clinic appointments in July, but those are typically at the clinic, not at the hospital. Today, we returned to the hospital. I drove the straight highway 52, descending into Rochester. A trip unanticipated, frightened, yet determined for answers. Amanda, Avery's mom, and I brought Avery here for further testing because she has recently required more oxygen. The need for more oxygen is abnormal for her, but we know her best, and we know something internally is different. We anxiously await lab draws, repeat CT, and potential tissue biopsies.
The concept of fear is over complicated for so many of us. Have you ever had someone tell you to let your faith be bigger than your fear? I'm wearing a bracelet right now, reminding me not to succumb to fear. I don't know where I got it; I'm certain one of my lovely angles of friends gave it to me. Thank you for reading this, and feel free to remind me of your cherished gift. Today I am pushing past the fear and conquering all the scenarios I swore I wouldn't see myself in again for at least a year. This morning's wake was another reminder that these recent tragedies are not a dream. This is my life. When God calls you to do hard things, you accept, adapt, and conquer, and probably eat your body weight in chocolate. I'm sure that's fine....everything is fine if you ask my son.
This past weak has brought fears that we never thought possible. What more could be pushed on our family? What else could we possibly be asked to handle? This past Monday, we decided to have Avery checked out. Her mom and I sat anxiously in the ER room, just like we've done many times before, awaiting answers and reassurance. Reassurance to a special needs child's parent doesn't have to be much. Draw the labs, tell us we are ok for now, and send us on our way. Great, perfect, that's all we ask for. Reassurance never comes easily; there's always something to be scared of when you have a child with a complex condition. We weren't reassured as we had hoped for, but we've learned to anticipate the negatives and expect the worst to lessen the blow of a surprise.
After a long wait, we've finally been accepted inpatient to perform further tests. We have no idea what we are up against. Avery, a natural-born warrior, is content as can be. So much has changed in the last few months. Challenges we had never thought we'd be up against, we are up against again. Funny how life can deliver wake-up calls. It's as if you start to breathe normally, your heart settles into the standard rhythm and rate, your appetite returns, then, suddenly, the world shifts on its axis, and you're called to attention again. With little time to prepare, the stress symptoms return, and the uncertainties rise to form a mountain that is impossible to climb without falling.
Why is it so easy to put your trust in the healthcare system and not in God? What happens when you walk through those doors of a well-known hospital with specialists for every facet of the human body? A sense of well-being naturally takes over as your eagerness starts to subside. Don't get me wrong, the anxiety is still there, but it's as if you are opening the curtain to new possibilities; regardless of the possibilities being what you want, you feel the need to go through the curtain, even if you can't pick up your feet. I pray for peace. A peace that allows us as a family to hand it over to God. There is nothing we can do for the situation we've already been handed. Whatever this complicated plan maybe, I can't turn back time. As much as we'd like to pull up the blinders and pretend a new diagnosis isn't consuming the future, we can't. We have no choice. We have no control. Complete care has been handed over. I can't help but question everything. I may not do it out loud, but internally, what will stop this place from treating our daughter like they did our son? That's a big struggle.
I thought I advocated as much as I could. I thought I still had partial control over Archer's care, and it was all ripped away in a matter of minutes. If I had only realized what I do now, perhaps I would have felt more peace over his quick and devastating changes. If only I had put my faith in God and not the medical staff, my disappointment may not have been so shocking. As if shocking is even an appropriate term for the pain we all felt. I don't know how else to describe it.
Here we are, again, putting our future into our heavenly father, just like he told us we could do. This isn't the first time we've been told to surrender the uncertainties. Lay it down at his feet and kneel just as a child would kneel before his father. Hand it over. Let our shoulders roll back, let the fog clear from our heads, and release the daunting fear that invades every muscle fiber and makes us clench until the numbness sets in. These stress responses are inevitable and subconscious reactions as our body release stress hormones that ramp up our nervous system.
Place calmness and silence over our heads as we try to listen to God's words. Open our ears to hear the unspoken tales of our future. Silence our mouths as we absorb the knowledge, and let us rest in your comforting promise of eternity, no matter what sharp turns lie ahead. Amen.
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