Patience

McKay managed to turn a challenging morning into a
golden afternoon, complete with a visit to the patients-only playroom.

________________________

I was kind of a brat today. I share that only because we're friends.

Here we sit on day five after a radical open heart surgery on my 22-month old son, and things simply are not moving fast enough for me.

Yes, you spell that: B-R-A-T.

It may have well been the cumulative effect of five days of 4 am xrays, 5 am blood-curdling blood draws or that fact that McKay's chest xray came back unchanged for the third day in a row. GRR. Oh, and they put him back on oxygen this morning because he continued to de-sat on and off all last night. By 9am I had pretty much decided it was not going to be a successful day.

I packed a bag of dirty clothes including Mac's cannot-be-without striped blankie he had just puked up all his meds onto and walked my vagabond self to the washing machines in the family area of the hospital.

This is it, I thought. Mac is still draining like a soda fountain from his chest tube and this is going to be our life for a while. I tried to take a deep breath--that's what I always tell my boys to do when they're upset--but I could not get my lungs to fill. I was carrying a weight of my own making and I had attached it right to my chest for me to feel and all the world to see.

Matt tried to console. To check in. But I blocked him out.

He gave me a kiss.

"I am not about to make out with you in the hospital," I told him.

"It was just a kiss," he said.

Yes, that spelling again was B-R-A-T.

To make matters worse I had decided that the agenda for the day included me returning from the laundry to load McKay up into a wagon and take him for a stroll around the floor. If I was going to will him better, it was going to start today.

Instead, when I returned he was tethered to a good 90-minute course of various IV drugs. GRR.

The meds always wipe him out. So he slept for a solid 4 hours after the push. I was getting impatient and worried about MY wagon ride.

Matt came to me and said, "I mapped you a run. You need to get out."

It was true. I have not left the hospital since last Friday. I know in my head it's an unhealthy thing to eat, sleep, and worry in this place around the clock, but I simply cannot leave him. Cannot.

Mac woke from his nap. We loaded him in the wagon and we rode. We rode to the playroom where he was in heaven for about 15 minutes. And then he was tired of sitting up, tried to lay on the floor, and we promptly loaded him up and returned him to bed.

In our short time in the playroom, however, we met a little girl from Tennessee who showed up with her family to get her Fontan operation a long while ago and was told she was not healthy enough for the Fontan and instead got listed for a heart transplant. So they wait. Miles away from home. On a twist of fate they never planned.

On our way back we passed the room of another little girl whose grandmother said before they could take a walk, the nurse had to take her vitals. The tiny little three-year old promptly turned around and jumped into her bed ready for the nurse to do her thing. "That would be nice," I remarked to our nurse who was all too familiar with McKay's tendency to act like he's having his arm sawed off when they take his blood pressure and temperature every four hours. "She's been here for 7 months," the nurse replied. "It's not nice, it's sad."

So the moral today, the day I started as a pity party, but ended snuggling with an ever-improving son who continues to be a gift from God, is this: PERSPECTIVE IS EVERYTHING.

I left the hospital tonight. I left Matt to have some alone time with McKay, and to take a walk and check out the course my sweet hubby charted for me; one I will run tomorrow. I thought a lot about how I chose to act and feel this morning. I knew many would say it was justifiable. But I also knew it was not of God. I am grateful for His mercy and His continual patience and love and perspective.

Here we are. Recovering. From the heart repair we begged for. Performed by the surgeon God has best prepared to administer it. My son is alive and making progress. And, eventually, we will go home. WE ARE BLESSED.

Tomorrow I will get out and fill my lungs and be strong. Because I want and expect the same from McKay. And at this point in the game we all must give our best effort. Because energy, and juju, and positivity, and expectations can be beautiful things if rightly placed, patiently adjusted, and consistently applied. Tomorrow will be a new day. I promise.