I was watching Grey's Anatomy tonight. And yes, I realize that it's time to stop watching that show, but I blame Adam because he's the one who has been watching since the beginning and forced me to start watching again. Seriously.
Anyways, at one point during this week's very dramatic episode, the daughter is looking at her dad hooked up to machines and asks "what's making that noise?" and they tell her "that's the ventilator."
At the word "ventilator" I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. My cheeks were wet with tears, and I couldn't stop picturing this tiny little baby from when Caden was in the hospital. While they were preparing us for Caden's surgery, the doctors informed us there was the possibility of Caden's chest being left open after surgery because of swelling. To help us prepare for what it might look like, they told us that we could see another baby with her chest open post-surgery. Hesitantly, we agreed.
We were sitting quietly by Caden's side one evening in the cicu when the nurse came by and whispered to us that they had a baby with her chest open for us to take a look at. Adam and I slowly followed the nurse, our hands grasped tightly, fingers knotted together, breath caught in my throat, and heart beating wildly. We left Caden's side and cautiously approached another bed space. It held a tiny baby girl, skin puffy and orange with betadine, her chest wide open, and her body shaking from an oscillating ventilator.
In that moment, my small reserves of strength shattered. That baby girl belonged to someone, just as surely as Caden belonged to us. And in the next few days, I might see my own baby looking just as swollen and helpless, and I just have no idea how this could be helpful, I sobbed into Adam's shoulder. They assured us that Caden would be on a different ventilator, and wouldn't be shaking the way this baby was. But now every time I think of a ventilator, all I can see is that baby and all I can feel is that moment.
After Caden's surgery, his chest was left open. One night, our nurse approached us to ask if they could bring a couple by to see him. Their own son was having open heart surgery the next day, and they were trying to prepare them for what he might look like post-surgery. We agreed, and gripped hands tightly again as the couple approached. I saw the same shock, fear, and uncertainty mirrored in their eyes that I knew shimmered in my own.
Thinking back tonight on those terrible moments, I realize what a cycle it was. Probably another family had to reluctantly shuffle over to see that couple's son after they came to see Caden . . and I am struck, yet again, at just how broken this world is. Full of suffering and pain and hurt and death.
And I spend most of my life coasting along, certain that nothing like that would ever happen to me. Never even considering the possibility of my child being sick. And then something does happen, and ever-after I'm convinced that everything will go wrong, every single time. Somehow I live balanced precariously between twin precipices of arrogance and fear, clinging desperately to grace to keep from falling into darkness. Finally, I get my footing, gripping tightly to grace and learning to Trust that yes, sometimes bad things can and will happen. But living in fear of what's ahead is not freedom. And Christ declares freedom, and gives assurance of a hope beyond this broken world.
I still see her little swollen face sometimes. It is forever etched in my memory, and even though I don't know who she belonged to or if she is home with her parents or home in heaven, that little girl in the cicu brought me to my knees before my Savior. And it turns out that there is no better place to be. So when I fumble through motherhood, when I stumble yet again and raise my voice to my daughter and the kid who knocked on our door for the 100th time today, I remind myself of her fragility. Of life's pain and beauty. Of it's uncertainty. And I ask for grace, pray for it while gripping Jayci close and drying her tears.
And with my pleas, I feel His breath fill me. Just as surely as Caden's lungs filled with air from the ventilator, His breath brings me life. And so I can rest, and strengthen my heart for everything that lies ahead.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." -Matthew 11:28
Anyways, at one point during this week's very dramatic episode, the daughter is looking at her dad hooked up to machines and asks "what's making that noise?" and they tell her "that's the ventilator."
At the word "ventilator" I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. My cheeks were wet with tears, and I couldn't stop picturing this tiny little baby from when Caden was in the hospital. While they were preparing us for Caden's surgery, the doctors informed us there was the possibility of Caden's chest being left open after surgery because of swelling. To help us prepare for what it might look like, they told us that we could see another baby with her chest open post-surgery. Hesitantly, we agreed.
We were sitting quietly by Caden's side one evening in the cicu when the nurse came by and whispered to us that they had a baby with her chest open for us to take a look at. Adam and I slowly followed the nurse, our hands grasped tightly, fingers knotted together, breath caught in my throat, and heart beating wildly. We left Caden's side and cautiously approached another bed space. It held a tiny baby girl, skin puffy and orange with betadine, her chest wide open, and her body shaking from an oscillating ventilator.
In that moment, my small reserves of strength shattered. That baby girl belonged to someone, just as surely as Caden belonged to us. And in the next few days, I might see my own baby looking just as swollen and helpless, and I just have no idea how this could be helpful, I sobbed into Adam's shoulder. They assured us that Caden would be on a different ventilator, and wouldn't be shaking the way this baby was. But now every time I think of a ventilator, all I can see is that baby and all I can feel is that moment.
After Caden's surgery, his chest was left open. One night, our nurse approached us to ask if they could bring a couple by to see him. Their own son was having open heart surgery the next day, and they were trying to prepare them for what he might look like post-surgery. We agreed, and gripped hands tightly again as the couple approached. I saw the same shock, fear, and uncertainty mirrored in their eyes that I knew shimmered in my own.
Thinking back tonight on those terrible moments, I realize what a cycle it was. Probably another family had to reluctantly shuffle over to see that couple's son after they came to see Caden . . and I am struck, yet again, at just how broken this world is. Full of suffering and pain and hurt and death.
And I spend most of my life coasting along, certain that nothing like that would ever happen to me. Never even considering the possibility of my child being sick. And then something does happen, and ever-after I'm convinced that everything will go wrong, every single time. Somehow I live balanced precariously between twin precipices of arrogance and fear, clinging desperately to grace to keep from falling into darkness. Finally, I get my footing, gripping tightly to grace and learning to Trust that yes, sometimes bad things can and will happen. But living in fear of what's ahead is not freedom. And Christ declares freedom, and gives assurance of a hope beyond this broken world.
I still see her little swollen face sometimes. It is forever etched in my memory, and even though I don't know who she belonged to or if she is home with her parents or home in heaven, that little girl in the cicu brought me to my knees before my Savior. And it turns out that there is no better place to be. So when I fumble through motherhood, when I stumble yet again and raise my voice to my daughter and the kid who knocked on our door for the 100th time today, I remind myself of her fragility. Of life's pain and beauty. Of it's uncertainty. And I ask for grace, pray for it while gripping Jayci close and drying her tears.
And with my pleas, I feel His breath fill me. Just as surely as Caden's lungs filled with air from the ventilator, His breath brings me life. And so I can rest, and strengthen my heart for everything that lies ahead.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." -Matthew 11:28