Messy and Loud, Please

This morning, we found ourselves back at a place that evokes so many emotions in me.  Cook Children’s Medical Center.  Hannah had to be there at 6:30 AM for a surgery to remove a cyst above her eye.  The cyst had been there for over 6 months and though it wasn’t a concern, it needed to be removed so it didn’t pose a problem in the future.  So, we found ourselves in one of the happily-decorated waiting rooms, listening to Doc McStuffins, as multiple medical personnel walked by the windows.  Most of them smiled, some kindly waved at Hannah. I wondered what each of their specialities was—how many children they had seen through the night, how grave or hopeful each prognosis was. . . It made me thankful all over again for people who pour their lives into practicing medicine.  

Soon, we found ourselves back in the pre-op area, answering questions about medical history, possible allergies, etc.  Hannah sat cross-legged on the bed, looking pretty comfortable.  The anesthesiologist came by to run through things and ask some questions.  As Jason signed some paperwork, I glanced down the page—it has been and always will be unnerving to just quickly initial paperwork that talks about “risks” and “in the event of”. . . 

As we waited for her to be wheeled back to surgery, Jason and I both struggling to fully wake up pre-coffee and adequate sleep, Hannah chatted merrily about the remote control in her bed, the tv stations offered and the cozy socks she got to wear with her hospital gown.  She chose to play the child life specialist’s iPad games while being wheeled back to get her anaesthesia, instead of drinking some medicine (“giggle juice”).  Not a huge shocker there—she had already voiced her concern about having to drink medicine at the hospital.

Jason and I headed back out to the waiting room—and waited.  As we watched HGTV and pretended to relax (or maybe that was just me)—I watched other families wait.  Some looked like they had been there awhile—some looked exhausted while others looked hopeful and expectant.  I saw doctors come out and kneel next to family members, explaining the outcome of the surgeries and next steps.  

It was hard to believe that we had walked these halls and waited hours in various hospital rooms over 9 years ago for this same sweet one.  Hannah’s bladder exstrophy surgery at 1 day old, then open heart surgery when she was 4 months old, plus another surgery a year later and various outpatient procedures had etched a plethora of emotions in my heart and mind.  Fear, hopelessness, grief, hope, joy, gratitude. . .they all bubble up, even in the back of my heart and mind, when I walk these halls.  I’m always immensely grateful for Cook Children’s—for the facilities and programs—but mainly the people there.  I want to embrace each one I walk by, grab their retractable name badges, say their names and look them in the eyes and say “Thank you for what you do.  Thank you for patiently explaining to scared parents what is happening with their children, what you will do to try to make it better and for pouring out your life here.”   

The fear and grief creep in while sitting in the chair in post-op/recovery, watching your child lay there, waiting for her to wake up.  Wondering how she is feeling—wanting to crawl into the bed with her.  Even as I sat today on the corner of my chair, peering over at Hannah, it was like my heart was restlessly waiting.  It reminded me of when they wheeled her out of her heart surgery, only months old, and I saw her sweet, angel face.  Even with the tubes and wires criss-crossing her little body, it was hard to refrain from scooping her up and holding her close.  

Even though today’s surgery was “minor” compared to her others, the anesthesia and other narcotics they gave her didn’t really play nice.  The surgery itself went well, but she slept several hours at the hospital and was nauseated by the meds afterwards.  I became impatient for her, just wanting her to be awake and be her peppy self again.  Funny how often I just want her endless stream of questions to cease or I long for a few moments to myself or of quiet--and when I have them, I ache for the other.  When she woke up a little, enough to sit up and answer a few questions, I smiled at her and held her shoulders and said “I missed you!”  Such a small statement but it struck me in the heart.  

So often, on the “normal” days, I long for clean and calm—no mess at home, no bickering between the girls, no issues with obedience and attitude.  Right then, in the hospital, my heart acquiesced to messy and loud.  I longed for messy and loud—because at least messy and loud means present and struggling.  And as long as there is breath in our lungs, we are often all struggling for something.  Struggling to be heard, struggling to achieve, struggling to learn, struggling to be calm and at rest — so today has reminded me to embrace the struggle.  Instead of shying away from it and wanting an easy path, link arms with the ones whom God has blessed me with and be encouraged by His love and faithfulness to run down the path He has paved for us.