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All the Same Day

Today was a lull day.  These days are always the hardest in hospital stays.  We are here.  People float in and out of the room but overall we are at a lull in the waiting game.  The waiting for something to happen.  To avoid the hurt, we get up, get dressed and we walk the grounds of the hospital.

It is these times that I see what surrounds us here in this hospital.  One, I am reminded that each floor, each room holds a child.  This is a children's hospital.  And in this place sits families temporarily split apart just like my family.  It is a hard road somedays.  Two, I always meet someone who makes me really think about, quite frankly, Life, and how fragile it really is.

It is this place and time in my life that makes my other life so difficult sometimes.  I see the tragedy of this world play out in miraculous ways.  Stunningly real life.  It makes going back to the other life seem like shades of beige sometimes.  Petty talk, meaningless worry, obsessing over the unimportant.

Here I am constantly reminded how fragile life is and at the same time when I look at my daughter I am reminded at how hard the human soul is willing to fight for that life.

Today Ivey and I went to the cafeteria to have lunch.  While standing in line a little girl stood and pointed while asking her mom questions that I could not quite hear.  The mom kneeled down and started pointing at Ivey too and talking to the little girl.  I understood what was happening with no explanation.

I collected my food and rolled Ivey up to the little girl and asked if she would like to meet Ivey.  She shook her head "no".

The mom went on the explain that the little girl had a sibling in the NICU, 1 month old, facial deformities, brain abnormalities.  For a few moments, Ivey represented the tragedy of their moment... keep in mind we are dragging a pole loaded down with various pumps and machines all of which are attached to Ivey.  The little girl was three.  She was the same age as Knox when Ivey was born.  I flashed to Knox, 3 years old, holding Ivey in the NICU singing "You've Got a Friend in Me".  

Soon the dad joined us, kneeling in front of Ivey, asking me questions.  Both parents had eyes glazed with tears and fear.  Ivey and I represented their unimaginable.  I pray, and ask you to pray, that their child lives to go home.  That is their prayer.

With the lull in the medical mayhem I went down to do some laundry tonight.  The laundry room takes courage to enter.  By using the washer and dryer here you succumb to the normalcy of a prolonged stay.  I always just want to go home in those minutes.  Being there tells you there is no control.  Life here is beyond control.  Most of my tears shed in this hospital have always been in the laundry room.

Tonight I met a husband and wife with a 7 year old daughter just diagnosed with cancer.  The dad asked me about the long stays.  And then we spoke for a moment.  But here, the fine details of life are often the only things discussed.  He said, "When we heard the diagnosis, we thought it was the worst day of our lives.  But now, it was one of our greatest days.  We have seen amazing things in such a short amount of time."  Ditto.

Here normal conversations aren't so normal.

But what is here is amazing.  It is real living.  Our children are teaching us.  Each person and family has this amazing story.  Each one has some heart break, but that is merely the start.  Here we learn to be strong when there is no energy left.  We learn to rise up when so many things say to stay down.  We find our courage, it is courage we didn't even know we had.  Here we are taught to see the beauty in the toughest of situations.  I wonder what those two families, and those we have met along the way while here, have seen in Ivey?

Strength in adversity?
Finding a way to be all you can be despite the odds?
A miracle?

Or is it something ... heartbreaking

I don't know.  Here you see so much in one small space.   There sometimes are really no words.

To watch and be a part of Ivey's tough days is a lot to shoulder. Some days that cross gets awfully heavy.  Backbreaking.  Despite that, it is humbling and inspiring to know that there are others walking this road, different cause, same road, yet we share a journey, this journey, with them.  It really makes this easier.  I honestly believe that God aligns those stars. God puts in our paths the people we need.  The family in the cafeteria, they are beginning a journey that is so similar to one we started almost seven years ago.  Today, she needed to see that she would survive, her family would survive - they are more than one tragic diagnosis.

I needed to see just how far I have come.

I needed to that today.

When the mom looked at me and whispered her child may not go home, my heart broke remembering that untapped fear.  It is primal fear.  It is a fear that Never stops pumping in your veins once it enters.  Ever.  I have merely learned to control it.  On occasion.

Sometimes, on most  days.

As she said those words she looked down to her little 3 year old and looked back at me.  I know that searing pain too well.  The inability to fix things for our children.  Make it all better.  It's a mother's fear to not be able to protect our children from the worst of pains. Back in our life outside of this hospital moms are battling for their children to be the best, but I don't understand why they aren't fighting as hard for them to be resilient.  Siblings here learn that lesson the hard way, it is instilled in their souls.

Today the mom saw Ivey, playing, smiling and she saw me thriving in a world that is now her new normal.

I hope she took that vision with her.

Here we know when we talk about our children there will be no sad faces, only looks of understanding.  Here there are only words of encouragement.  Battles cries to one another if you will.  It all happens all in one blink, all the same day.

And our lesson.

We learn that sometimes our worst day and our greatest day are all the same day.

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Comments

KrisKay said…
Quite profound! I continue my prayers for you all. Ivey and you are both inspirations to me and so many.
Pam said…
Thank you. Just thank you, Gwen.
Pam said…
Thank you. Simply thanking you for sharing your story. I always walk away better and changed for my time here.
Junior said…
beautiful post, rings so true.

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