Days went by, and the projectile woes got steadily worse. We tried all the normal things: different milk, different positions, nothing helped. He slept, cried, puked and dirtied the occasional diaper. Repeat. Day in, day out. One morning, when the crying was particularly loud, and the vomit was particularly voluminous, we went back to the doctor.
"It's probably nothing," she remarked as we recounted the story of Ian's first days. "Probably nothing, at all." "Just to be safe, I want an MRI appointment at the hospital, now." I watched her eyes get big as she gave the nonverbal cue to the nurse to call ahead to the hospital. At that point, I knew it was something.
My mind was racing. But there was nothing to do at this point, except breathe, and be normal. Ben was at school until three. He would need to be picked up, and Abi could not handle anymore doctors offices. So, I went home,. and John took our tiny little boy for more tests. I managed, in those hours, a few one word prayers, some prayerful sighs of desperation and some solitude during Wonder-Pets. (Thank God for Wonder Pets.) In between I tried to distract myself back to the old normal with Facebook, cleaning and crafts. I knew I had enough faith for the way things had been; did I have enough for whatever was coming next? In that moment, A friend sent me a message that read, "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."
A few minutes later the phone rang. It was John. The horrific ordeal of the MRI showed that the valve leading to Ian's stomach was completely closed off. Nothing could get though and he would need immediate surgery keep him from starving to death. I silently reminded myself to breathe. I wanted to cry, but I couldn't find the umph to do that and do get Ben from Kindergarten. Tears would have to wait.
On the longest six block walk ever, I tried to explain the situation in a way that a child might grasp. This was neat trick. How could I when I my own grasp seemed to be evading me? Kids, Ian is sick. The doctors want to fix his tummy. He is at the hospital now. Yes, I think he will be OK. Yes, God is with him and us as well." To myself I added: "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief." Ben's eyes were huge blue saucers at this point, and he seemed to walk slower with every step.
Home. John called again. He was on his way to come and get us all. He came in the door without Ian. Breathe, Laurie.
We walk hand in hand through the parking lot and John explained they would not allow Ian to come home with us, even for the car ride to pick me up. He was too sick to risk it. A few hours earlier it was 'probably nothing'. How did we get here again? Never mind, just get me to that room. Let me hold that boy.
The hospital was bright and cheerful. In the room, Ian was laying on a bed with shallow rails and white sheets. He was still, calm, tiny and helpless. His itty-bitty body looked even smaller because of the rather large needle they have inserted and taped to his head while we were gone. Wires connected him to monitoring machines that beeped incessantly. They seemed to be speaking a foreign language. They stood as more thing to remind me, we were in a very foreign place. I looked at John and I saw his heart sink. The needle bothered him. The while-we-were-gone part didn't help either. My head hurt too.
Next came the introductions and the explanations. He could not eat or drink anything until surgery tomorrow. The IV in his head would keep him hydrated enough to get by. Apparently, projectile spewing every day of your two weeks of life starts to deplete the number of good veins you have left for IV. His condition, pyloric stinosis, was common-- for boys-- especially. It was quite possible that Ben had a less severe case as a baby... At this point the nurses were starting to sound like grown ups on the Peanut cartoons.
In a moment of sheer grace, a nurse recognized the look on my face and stopped her explanations for a minute. She found a chair and a pillow. If I sat close enough to the machines and kept the right angle, I could hold him while she talked. Somewhere John found pizza and coke. I could translate the foreign language again.
Meanwhile, The older kids dealt with the foreign land by exploring, a.k.a touching everything. It soon became apparent we would have to divide and conquer again, and rather quickly before small curious, hands broke expensive medical equipment. Policies only let one parent stay over might, anyway. So, this time, John sat at home, attempting to pray, breathe, and be normal.
We said our goodbye, silently praying for strength, peace, and healing, not just for Ian, but for all of us.
As the sun set. The hospital slowly faded from cheerful to, well, hospital-ish. Full of caring people, but lonely as all get out. A place of healing; full of brokenness. The fold out chair that I was supposed to sleep on was quickly deemed "the most uncomfortable chair ever". Who was going to sleep now anyway?
To say "long night" would equate to calling a blazing inferno "slightly warm." But it wasn't all terrible. A little sugar water on his pacifier Ian stayed relativity calm through the discomfort. (Thank you, living-means-of grace-nurse) There were diapers to be changed, each one weighed and charted. Other that that, and loving that baby, not much was pressing on the "to-do" list.
Each time he squirmed the wires connected to the monitors would come loose resulting in a screeching chorus of alarms. I watched carefully as nurses replaced them. Soon, I learned to to replace them myself and stop the awful blaring that reminded me of too many "code blues" on ER and House.
I learned something else, too. Because of all those pesky wires, I could not hold Ian close to my chest and wrapped up in my arms as I had done before we entered this foreign land. I had to change my grasp on him and hold him up, with an open type of embrace. That way my hands, my heart, and my presence would not interfere with everything.
I held him in my open arms all night long. We sang. We talked. I told stories. The moments oscillated from precious sweetness to utter gut-checks. But the embrace could not change.
I often told my other kids when they whine about food, that they have never gone hungry a day in their lives. I realized I could never truthfully say that to his sweet face. He had been starving since day one. And there was nothing more I could do about it. He was tiny enough that he wouldn't remember. On the other hand, I always would. Breathe.
The phlebotomist came late that night to draw blood. Ian's veins were uncooperative again. And when she came in she couldn't even find the light switch. It was a tough job, to be sure. I tried to be patient. He was whimpering; then howling. Ten sticks; then twelve. I'll say it: I wanted to deck her. But, then I would have had to give up that open armed embrace. And that wasn't happening.
I met the surgeon that night, too. More information...He realized that nothing seemed routine to me, but he had done thousands of these before...I couldn't help noticing that his hands looked positively giant in comparison to my son's frail little frame.
More songs, more stories, more time passing. A few bleary-eyed visits from friends and cell phone calls from a land somewhat more familiar.
My in-laws had come to stay with the kids. I could lean on John for surgery day. The time finally came for them to roll him back. I found it hard to make my legs move faster than Ben walking home from Kindergarten. Sometimes, I really understand that boy.
More information. At some point it drifted to Peanut-speak again. Focus; breathe, believe. Then came the releases. Pages and pages of forms informed us of every risk and every danger. My fears stared from that paper, glaring at my tired eyes in black and white. They were asking for signatures. This was really happening. And that's when the tears finally came.
Somehow, the papers got signed.
While sitting next to the bed, with a box of Kleenex and a face full of snot, I had a realization. Truth, became especially real to me. I caught a glimpse of grace, in a moment of reflection.
There are things in this broken world that are starving us, hurting us, breaking us, and keeping us weaker than He intends. He wants to remove those things, to redeem them so we can life abundant life. Redemption can only come when we recognize the severity of the situation. We need a Savior outside of ourselves. We hold our gifts, out lives, our loves, and all we possess with an open grasp and an open heart so we do not stand in opposition to His purpose. We face the fears and risks of life keeping that open grasp; that position of offering and faith. Because we trust that He is enough, even in a foreign land.
I handed my son over to a stranger, who swept him up in a warm blanket, and whisked him away to a room full of needles, scalpels and lasers. I pictured that blanket as the very presence of God and waited for him to return to my open arms.
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