When Arabella was in the hospital (she was about 4 months old) I wrote a blog entry but I never posted it. At the time I didn't think it was appropriate to share. Perhaps it was too raw and I was afraid it would be disheartening to some readers. But I think it's worth posting this today.
Here it is...
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There was a new admission into our room last Friday night. A baby was delivered and scheduled for immediate surgery. I witnessed the baby's family pour in and out of the room for the next few hours while I held Arabella in my arms. It's obviously a joyful time for the entire family, but you could sense the undertones of anxiety.
Happiness mixed with fear. Immense hope with hints of despair. It's a journey of constant clashing emotions.
Most of the little ones here at Sick Kids are fighting tough battles, and unfortunately in some cases it's life threatening.
Do you ever look at your own life and wonder why or how you ended up where you are?
Sometimes it feels like God has sent me here on assignment, like a reporter is often sent deep into a region of crisis.
Welcome to ground zero.
In a way, I am a quiet observer. I take mental notes of everything that happens around us, whether I realize it or not.
Kiera and I regularly talk to a few of the other parents in the NICU. We get to know other parents that are here for the long haul, much like ourselves. We run into other moms and dads in the family kitchen, by the pump rooms, or in the hallways. Eventually we strike up a conversation, and we get to hear about their joys, triumphs, conflicts, and struggles.
A lot of the moms here tend to band together for support. Often times it's about affirming those feelings of frustration and helplessness. Who else to better understand than another NICU mom? The other moms have helped Kiera immensely.
Dads are generally more on the quiet side, perhaps offering a nod of affirmation to other fellow dads. Although unspoken, it doesn't mean that they are indifferent. Dads have their own way of coping and dealing. I'd categorize most of them as "strong but silent".
Many of the little ones here at Sick Kids are on an odyssey very much similar to Arabella's. Stories that are on the up, trending in a positive direction. There are still bumps in the road, but they are manageable bumps, ones that don't threaten lives or have the potential to shatter hearts.
But each story is different and unique from the next.
We've met 3 couples so far who have lost one of their twins. One couple in particular we've gotten to know exceptionally well.
I learned not to judge anyone from a distance. You don't know the burdens that they carry.
A young mother lost her baby boy over the weekend. Her husband was overseas and sadly couldn't be there. The baby's issues were very complex, and it was simply a matter of time before God had to take him home. I saw this mother come in every day to spend time with him. Precious, precious time. You would never know by looking at her that she was dealing with so much. Her family came in to support her on the day the boy passed away. I saw a lot of quiet hugs.
I wonder how many silent prayers these hallways must have heard over the years.
Another mother comes to visit her baby girl everyday knowing that her little one wont live much longer. A complex liver issue, and the baby isn't a candidate for a liver transplant. Doctors have told her to consider ending the baby's intensive care, but she tells them to do whatever they can to prolong life, and she fights along side her daughter. She says she just wants to spend as much time with her as possible. This woman somehow manages to flash a big smile each time we see her. How does she do it? What does she tell her 5 year old daughter (who we also see by her side)?
When I hear some of these parents' stories, I try to imagine how it must feel like, but I cant.
It must be a pain that cuts deep into your core.
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