The CICU is a scary place. Doctors and nurses scurry around, constantly checking levels, changing meds, and fixing problems. Lights flash red and green and orange everywhere as alarms and reminders go off. And the beeps, oh the beeps. It isn't long before you start hearing those beeps in your sleep.
Part of what makes it so scary is that everything is life and death. We've been there a few times when we've heard them call a "code blue," and I can't even begin to describe the feeling that those words produce in my stomach: trembling fear, pain to think of someone else going through that, and relief that it wasn't our Caden.
I am still amazed by the number of wires, tubes, lights, medications, and computer screens monitoring rates and rhythms that are attached to our son. He is surrounded by a spaghetti of tubes that are overwhelming to even think about untangling. I can scarcely fathom how the nurses are able to put the right medicine in the right tube to get it to the right place . . .
Yesterday I finally realized, however, that all those scary things - the alarms, the lights, the wires, the screens, the medicines, syringes, and beeping . . . they've all become beautiful to me. Because they are the very things God is using to keep Caden alive.
"He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end." -Ecc 3:11
So while I wont pretend it's not still gut-wrenchingly painful to see my son laying on his bed attached to a million machines, with his chest wide open, and a machine breathing for him . . . I've discovered that not only is the CICU a scary place, but it's also a place where miracles happen. Where we pray for pee, and Caden is a peeing machine. Where we pray for peace, and we have peace, even in the midst of circumstances that are worse than anything I could have imagined. But we have peace, and that's a miracle, an answered prayer.
And who would have thought something as gruesome as an open chest could be so beautiful? Because I can look at my son, and see his heart beating. And know that each beat of that tiny heart is a miracle, a chance for God's glory and grace to pour out on us anew.
Hey little buddy, just keep fighting and let your heart get strong . . . we are right here beside you, and we love you so much more than you can even imagine. Your mommy and daddy, and literally thousands of others all across the globe are rooting for you and praying for you and can't wait to see lots more of those beautiful eyes!
Part of what makes it so scary is that everything is life and death. We've been there a few times when we've heard them call a "code blue," and I can't even begin to describe the feeling that those words produce in my stomach: trembling fear, pain to think of someone else going through that, and relief that it wasn't our Caden.
I am still amazed by the number of wires, tubes, lights, medications, and computer screens monitoring rates and rhythms that are attached to our son. He is surrounded by a spaghetti of tubes that are overwhelming to even think about untangling. I can scarcely fathom how the nurses are able to put the right medicine in the right tube to get it to the right place . . .
Yesterday I finally realized, however, that all those scary things - the alarms, the lights, the wires, the screens, the medicines, syringes, and beeping . . . they've all become beautiful to me. Because they are the very things God is using to keep Caden alive.
"He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end." -Ecc 3:11
And this? Seeing these beautiful eyes looking at me is nothing short of amazing. Caden opened his eyes for the first time since surgery, and we were both there, AND I had my camera. And I realize that his eyes being open doesn't mean much medically about his condition, but I will tell you that it did a world of good for my mama-heart.