Front Row Seat to a Miracle

   For the past few hours, I had watched him.  Each time he had walked into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, he was a little more undone.  I dared not approach him, even though my heart screamed out to go to him, to hug him, and to cry with him.  But, that was not an option. 

   He was the daddy of a brand new baby girl.  She was a full-term baby, healthy by all appearances, that for no good reason, was fighting for her life.  She was one of a small percentage of Caesarean delivered infants that suffer from hyaline membrane disease.  Her lungs were not developed enough to sustain her life.  Because of that, she was one of my patients.  As a Respiratory Therapist, I was responsible for monitoring the life support equipment, as well as, her heart and lungs, and arterial blood gases.

   With two preschoolers at home, I found that the 11-7 graveyard shift worked for me.  I would put my babies to bed before I left for work and would be home before breakfast.  This night would be unlike any I had ever worked before or since.  As I took report that night, the Therapist from the previous shift minced no words.  “We’ve got a kid going bad. The unit is full, but this one will take your full attention. Doc is weighing the options at this point, but, it doesn’t look good.  And just so you know, Dad has been given to permission to come and go as he pleases as long as his doesn’t approach the bed.  He stands over at the nurses’ station and watches.  It’s really sad.”   These bits of information were passed along so that while we performed our jobs, we could do so with the utmost sensitivity.  “Which baby?” I asked.

Granny Jessie

   My grandmother was a character to say the least.  She had a true pioneer spirit and was as tough as nails.  She loved to fish with a passion matched only by her hate of armadillos.  The older I get, the more I realize how much I learned from her without really knowing that she was teaching me.  She was a very talented seamstress and a creative force.  She instilled in me a love of sewing and all kinds of stitchery, including: crochet, crewel, embroidery, needlepoint, and cross-stitch. She took it upon herself to teach me.  I shall never forget our crochet sessions that went something like this.  After showing me what to do, she would give me an assignment. For example, she would tell me to have completed 10 rows of crochet by the following week.  I would return with project in hand for her inspection.  More often than not, she would rip out every stitch that I had sewn and say, “Start over.” 

  There were two mistakes that I made that she would not tolerate.  I was careless about the consistency of my stitches.  Some would be extremely tight and others would be extremely loose.  The other thing I stayed in trouble over,  was adding stitches where they did not belong. Either way, had those two problems been overlooked, I would have ended up with a misshapen, unrecognizable project.   However frustrating for me that it was, and believe me, IT WAS, I learned a great deal from those exercises.  The things that she taught me about sewing have been easily translated into other areas of my life, especially in my spiritual walk.

   As a Christian, my walk must be consistent for others to follow.  If my walk is too “loose” or I have one foot in the world and one in the church, I blend in with the world and my witness becomes unappealing to those who are struggling to find something of worth.   If my walk is to “tight”, I become pharisaical.  When I make a practice of constantly pointing out when and where others fall short in their walk with Christ, I set my own self up for a major fall.  If I judge others, Scripture explicitly tells me I will be judged by the same measure. Regardless, the outcome is that I drive others away.

  As a Christian, I should not add anything to my witness.  I must not be guilty of adding in my abilities or my works.  If I rely on anything other than Christ in me, the hope of glory, then I provide a warped view of Christ to those whom I am trying to witness.   Whether I am inconsistent in my walk or am guilty of “adding” unnecessarily to my witness, the result is the same—what I leave others with is a misshapen, unrecognizable Jesus.                         

   If there was an overall idea that my Granny Jessie taught me, it was excellence.  She was all about doing the job – well. 

Ecclesiastes 9:10               Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.

Parenting Tip #25: Discipline on the Road

   It has been said that parenting is the most wonderful and the most horrible thing all rolled into one.  When our sons were small, there were days that I felt like an animal trainer in the circus.  “Up, boy!”  “Down, boy!”  “Sit, boy!”  Once they were tucked away in bed, my husband and I would sneak in and spend a little time just looking at them.  (I would probably do that now, but that would be creepy.)  Anyway, the frustrations of the day seemed to fade away as we watched them resting peacefully.

  Consistency is the key with parenting.  Children have to know that you are serious about keeping the boundaries that you have set for them.  I beg to differ with the man that sells the “Total Transformation” program that purports to have your children minding with respectful attitudes by sundown.  Parenting is hard!  It takes both parents on the same page, working in tandem to see to it that their children are raised to be decent, law-abiding citizens.

   In our house, the rod was never spared…broken a few times, but never spared.  For all the faults that John and I have, and the many times we have failed, we always backed each other up.  Always wary that an uprising was in the making, we were not about to let them get the upper hand.  Dividing and conquering was out of the question.  Whether the issue was with me and a boy(s) or him and a boy(s), we both knew that the other had our back. Sometimes we tag teamed if the offense was of great significance.  Other times, affirmation of the other parent’s position was stated as a simple, “Your dad is right” or “Mom has a point.” The inmates were not about to take over the asylum on our watch.    We were rock solid.   Well……..except for that one time…..

  It had been one of those days, in a vehicle.  Slapping, knocking, hitting, slinging and the boys were misbehaving, as well.  We had upgraded from a Ford Aerostar to a full-size Chevy van just so they could not touch each other.  We always carried three distinct personalities in our boys: the “daddy/rule maker” who always changed the rules if he was losing; the “sneaky/instigator” that would ding everybody to death out of sheer boredom; and the “emergency broadcast system/president of the world” that kept us apprised of everything the other two were doing in a very loud voice.  This day all three personalities were kicking. 

  You really cannot blame my husband for what happened next.  He was delirious from all the fighting and scratching that was taking place, just out of arms reach, in the back of the van.  He had all he could take and exploded, “I’m going to beat your belts with my butt when we get home!!”  You could have heard a pin drop.  Complete silence. I whipped a crick in my neck as I turned my face to the window.  I was almost certain that my lungs were about to explode.  And yet, silence reigned.  My mind raced as I wondered how to back that statement up.  But, a united front had to be presented. 

  Therefore, I mustered my “mom face” and turned toward the back.  In my most threatening tone I added, “And…that… will…not…be…pretty.”  The rest of the ride home was amazingly quiet, except for the occasional snicker, or smothered laugh.  And I must confess….they were mine.

My First Love

   She stood on the creek bank terrified.  She was unable to push past the fear, even though it was what she wanted most.  She was shier than anyone truly knew.  And to have all eyes on her was almost more than she could take.  She had loved to dance, and dance she did, but this was different.  She would have immediate acceptance or immediate rejection based on this performance. 

  And so, it had come to this:  an impromptu rehearsal of the big event.  And yet, her feet would not move.  She was embarrassed.  The people that looked on were the people that she knew the best, her family.  If she could not get past this performance, how would she ever face the one that truly counted?  She had never done this before.  Maybe she should have never signed up to do it. 

  Her thoughts were interrupted with the encouraging cheers of her family.  She saw her mom smiling and prompting her to go.  She saw her brothers watching, as well.  Her heart was pounding, and she had just about given in to the fear.  And then, from the edge of the woods and into the middle of the sandy stage, her dad bounced.  “Hey, Gang!  My name is Davis! And I’m going to do a cheer called ‘Two Bits!”  As he shouted, he had his hands balled into perfect cheerleader fists. (NO thumbs showing!)  As she looked on, amused, he went through the whole routine.  Little by little the fear began to melt away and what had seemed un-doable became doable.  If he could do it, she could do it!

  You were my first love.  You embodied all the qualities of the perfect man.  Big and strong, you were possessive of two arms in which I found safety.  You were funny and witty, and able to quickly elicit my laughter.  I thought you were so handsome!  I often thought of you as my ‘John Wayne’, tough with an unmistakable tenderness. Above all, you showered me with love every day.  You were a first impression of what my Heavenly Father was like, you were my Daddy.

   You continue to be wise counsel.  You taught me the importance of noble character.  You have displayed honor in your own life and encouraged me to follow suit.  You are my cheerleader, and my encourager.  You were the spiritual leader in our family and humble of heart.  You speak your mind with clarity, even though, you are quick to admit that you don’t have all the answers.  You are kind and patient and a wealth of wisdom. 

  We promoted you from “Daddy” to “Pappy” with the births of Seth, Ashley, Zane, Megan, and Wil.  Your mentoring has continued on with them.  I have had the pleasure of watching my own children sit at your feet, as toddlers, hanging on your every word.  I watch them now, as young men, do the same thing. 

  I often think back on that day on the creek bank.  I wanted to be a cheerleader, but was too afraid to even practice in front of family, much less, the student body.  By your actions, Daddy, you challenged me to reach for a goal that seemed impossible.  That same scenario has played out several times in my life, and each time you have been there to cheer me on.  I am so thankful that God chose you to be my Dad.

Happy Birthday, Pap!  I love you.

Chucky

The Problem with Being a Lab Rat

   The problem with being a lab rat is that you never know what is going to happen to you.  Signing on to be a part of a drug trial, to test experimental medications, can be a regular barrel of monkeys.  Over time, there have been several unpleasant side-effects that I have had to deal with, including losing most of my hair and losing the clotting factors in my blood.  But, one such side effect that I was not ready to deal with was a hospital room mate.

   I had been admitted to the hospital because my blood would not clot.  The trial drug that I was testing had an unexpected effect of enhancing the blood thinning medication that I regularly took.  I was admitted for blood transfusions and to make sure that I had not begun to bleed internally.  Unfortunately, I felt perfectly fine.  I was stuck…in an overcrowded hospital….with no private rooms available. I was given the option of staying in the emergency room another night, in hopes that one would come available.  But, my husband quickly jumped in and insisted that I needed my rest in a room on the floor.

  To begin with and needless to say, I did not want to be there.  But, my condition was serious enough that my doctor recently told me it was a God-thing that my brain had not started to bleed.  So, I had to do what I had to do, and that meant rooming with Karen.  (I did NOT change her name, because she had NO innocence to protect.)   Karen was nice enough, I suppose.  We exchanged pleasantries as we got to know one another.  She was in for suspected heart issues.  She was a good bit older than me and had a few more children than I.  Little did I know how intimately I would get to know them…all.   Everything was fine until my husband had to leave. 

   He had never left me in the hospital before…forever by my side…always there…until then.  I remember tearing up like a kid being left at camp for the first time.  If he could only read my mind…and then…what?  I know he didn’t!  Yes, he did!!  His eyes never left mine as he gently nodded toward my roommate and giggled before turning and walking out the door.  On second thought, it was probably a good thing that he could NOT read my mind.

   Karen was hooked up to several thousand dollars’ worth of cardiac monitoring equipment that she periodically knocked, pulled, or otherwise dropped on the floor. The next few nights were a blur of being jolted awake in the night with the clattering of equipment, the smell of cold – one day old, two day old, and finally three day old- fried catfish that she would sit on the side of the bed and gnaw in the middle of the night, and the loud talking.  Ah yes, I remember it still. 

   But in order to truly understand the nights, you must understand the days.  The days started with phone calls, in a quiet - sickly voice, to friends and family to let them know that she was in the hospital and to share with them that the food was bad and that she could sure use and order of (insert your favorite fast food here, and don’t forget the catfish).  The following day would begin with a call back to aforementioned friends and family for the purpose of reaming them out.  “Why you ain’t come to see me?”  Even though, daily, her side of the room, as well as mine, was full of her family members with which she intermittenly fought.  Daily, my husband would return – well rested and chipper and acting as though he knew a really funny joke of which I was a part.   Was vowing revenge a sin in this instance?  Even so, as evening came around I noticed that he was way too eager to leave again.

   Oh and that brings us back to the nights…now where was I?  I remember…the loud talking.  The nights were punctuated with several bouts of, “Oh Lord Jesus, I got the gas!”  followed by more gnawing on leftovers.  Finally, after several nights, I had taken all I could and I agreed out loud, “Yes, Lord Jesus, she does!”  The next morning my husband found me walking laps in the hallway, “I am being released today,” I told him.   He was surprised that the doctor had made it in so early.  I told him I had not seen the doctor yet, but that I was going home TODAY.  If my brain had not already been about to bleed, it was now.  Sure enough, with much arm twisting I was released and happy to go home.  I had never been so glad to leave someplace, in all my life. 

  Although I can laugh about it now, I remember it as a nightmare.  I have not forgotten those few days, and guess I never will.  I have not let my husband forget them either…

There Is No Such Thing As Luck : Conclusion

   The fifteen minute ambulance ride was a pitiful affair.  I cried the whole way to the hospital while the driver tried his best to make small talk.  A short x-ray later and we were moved to a different ambulance and sent to Hermann Memorial at Medical Center-Houston.  A pediatric neurosurgeon was on standby awaiting our arrival. 

   I spent the next hour praying and looking back to check on my sweet eight year-old baby.  He looked so small and so incredibly vulnerable.  If a heart could burst, mine would have been in a million pieces.  My mind could not and would not conceive of what the future might hold.  My fervent prayer was that he would be spared and I would be strong enough to handle come what may.

  Unsure of what to expect when the emergency room doors opened, we were a little unnerved to be met, first, by a camera crew with cameras rolling.  Our story had come over the radio and had caught the attention of the crew filming TLC’s “Trauma: Life in the ER”.   After an initial assessment, Wil was sent for a cat-scan and further x-rays.

   A short time later the surgeon arrived with film in hand and asked me to step into the hallway.  As we began to head toward the x-ray light box he said, “Can I just tell you how very lucky he is?”  As he talked he shoved the film under the clip and immediately I was captured by the picture of my son’s skull.  From the crown of his head to the bottom of the skull was a jagged crack forming a backward “J”.  Although a portion of the bone had been crushed inward, the doctor hesitated to do surgery right away. Because the wound was closed, he had bled inside the skull.  Even so, the doctor wanted to monitor him for a few days to see if the bleeding would stop naturally. 

   Several days later we were released to go home and convalesce.  The best part of the ordeal according to Wil was that he got to miss the last three weeks of school.  For me, the best part was bringing home an on- the- mend second grader.  Shortly after returning home, we were surprised by a knock at the door.  The EMT’s that had come to our house the day of the accident, returned to check on him.  They talked to Wil and wished him well.  I thanked them for helping not only a wounded child, but a scared, desperate mom.  As they were leaving, the one that had driven, nodded toward Wil and said, “I honestly didn’t know if he was going to make it.”     

   He was home from college the other day.  Having recently turned twenty, he has grown into a fine young man.  A semi-horseshoe indention in his skull serves as a beautiful reminder of God’s awesome power and mercy.  Although God always deals in second chances, we know, there is no such thing as luck.

Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come.  Psalm 71:18

There Is No Such Thing As Luck

“Mom?”  His tone seemed unhurried, but serious.  “I think Wil is hurt.”  Those were the words that interrupted our “school morning” routine.  After breakfast, they had gone outside to wait for the bus that would pick them up at the end of our driveway.  Today, something had gone terribly wrong.

  Getting outside a little early had always been a bonus for them.  They used the extra minutes to play, what boys play, before school. This day had been like so many others and yet I knew immediately that something was not right.  With a jolt to the heart I realized that I heard nothing.  No screaming, no crying, no threats – nothing.

   I dropped what I was doing and immediately ran for the front door.  As I stepped off our porch, I saw him.  He sat on the driveway clutching the back of his head.  I reached him before his brother said, “He fell from the rim of the basketball goal.”  I reached out to him and found with a sickening touch that the back of his head was mushy.   Without a thought to further injury I scooped him up into my arms and carried him inside.  I ordered his brother to make sure he did not fall asleep while I called for an ambulance.  I rushed to the phone and called, all the while praying that he would be okay.  Thankfully there was a fire station situated in our neighborhood.

  As I returned to the livingroom and held him, time slowed to a crawl.  I was aware that head injury victims could go from lucid to unconscious quickly, as the brain began to swell.  Terror congealed in my veins and turned my heart into an icy lump.  Finding it difficult to breathe and even more difficult to speak, I began to talk to him.  If these were to be his last conscious moments, I wanted to fill the time with everything I wanted him to know.  I told him how much his dad and I had wanted him, how much we loved him, how proud we were of him, and how he fulfilled our hopes.  He lay limp in my arms as the first responders arrived.  I handed his small body over to them and watched as they began to work with him…