…And The House Is Still Standing

Last week, I was watching from our car as a red helicopter flew to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City with our little baby, while we had to drive the distance, which seemed very long.

He is home now.  He is alright.  It could have been much worse.  While there may be challenges ahead, for now we are attempting to enjoy the fact that this time, the miracle was that he gets to stay.  We have some adjustments to make to help him get used to mortality, but it is all for our good, and it is so that the works of God may be made manifest.

But, I must admit, I have felt overwhelmed, and at times, have forgotten my gratitude in the midst of post-pregnancy hormones, long nights in the hospital, and the constant conflict of faith and self-doubt…I have been exhausted, and have felt, too often, my lack.

I wondered, during this experience, is that what I am supposed to learn?  That I am irrational in the midst of affliction?  That I am the kind of person who can lose it, even in the middle of a miracle?

And why is it that I get home and think I have to clean?

I finally realized it is because, growing up, there has been a false notion I have picked up on in my religious culture that if everything looks perfect, then everything is perfect.

The first thing I realized when I got home from the hospital was that I forgot to take all my pumped breastmilk with me.  I also did not yet have a hospital grade breast pump, and my little boy was hungry. (He, at this time, is unable to nurse.)

I lost it.

And, somewhere, I was thinking, “This wouldn’t have happened if the lawn was mowed, the kitchen tidy, and I had more vinyl lettering hanging in my house.”

The first time I took a shower in my own bathroom after our week at Primary Children’s, I lost it.

I bawled my head off.  I realized I didn’t cry at the hospital.  I had kept it all in until I got home.  All my thoughts just came to the surface as tears…

I am not a good mother.

Why didn’t I realize sooner that he wasn’t doing as well as he should?

Why did they have to have so many IVs and then prick the same foot over and over again every hour for four days straight?

Why am I not more happy, considering I saw so many with so many more problems than we had?  Why couldn’t I just be grateful for what I had in comparison to so many of the children and families I observed in the PICU?

I had to come to an understanding that the only way it would be okay for me to mourn my own small trial would be to place it in perspective.  It was still okay to cry.  And, I realized that I wasn’t just crying for my small suffering.  I was also crying for the other families and children I had gotten to know….I had tasted a small bit of the bitter cup they must bear indefinitely, and I almost couldn’t endure.  But I did.  And, somehow, they do.  And, it is all by the grace of God, Our Father.

Then, my husband went to church and I was completely out of my league with only a 2 year old and a newborn.  Me? A mother with a fifteen passenger van that is nearly always full–overwhelmed caring for only two children?  What?!?!?  Usually, I am fine, but that day, I was a mess.  And the 2 year old slept most of the time! He just happened to wake up with a fragrant diaper in the midst of my attempt pump with one hand and bottlefeed with the other.

I lost it.

I cried.

The boys cried.

The other night, I had finally showered.  I was in my pajamas and the 2 and 4 year old were just down to bed…I started to feel like there might be hope that some sort of semblance of normality was coming back into our lives, when the fire alarms started going off.

So, the first thing I did was to call my husband.  Not the fire department.  Then, after I cried that if I called the fire department, they would see my messy house, I called 9-1-1.

The operator told me to evacuate.

So, we did.  There we were in the front lawn in our pajamas with our “valuables”–a breast pump, a bin of frozen breastmilk, and my computer and cell phone.  The baby had finally fallen asleep, and then I got panicked that maybe it was carbon monoxide, and I tried to wake him up, and then he started crying. The fire department arrived and let me know, after the neighborhood came to see me in my nightgown and robe, that dust was caught up in the alarms and we just needed to clean them out.

“Happens all the time, ma’am.  You did the right thing to call, though.  You never know.”

“Sorry about the mess in my house and the lawn…we’re going to mow it this week,” I responded.

They laughed.

“Actually, ma’am, you have a beautiful home.  It sure is pretty up here.”

“Yes, and it’s not raining.” I said, as the Spirit of gratitude overwhelmed me.  I held back my tears as the firemen left…

…and then I lost it.

The sun was setting and the sky was all pink and baby blue and grey and beautiful.  The breeze was kissing our cheeks.

My house wasn’t on fire.  And it was beautiful.  And it sure was pretty up here.

I was with my family, not in a hospital.

I praised God right then and there that He had been so kind as to send me ministering angels to speak His words:

It’s a beautiful home.  It sure is pretty up here.

Sometimes, the miracle is that the house burns down, and we learn to let go and rebuild.  Sometimes the miracle is that the child goes back to God, and we learn to let go and go forward with faith.

But, sometimes, the miracle is a warm, breezy evening, a beautiful home, and a baby boy who gets to live.

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Tagged as: insights from motherhood