Reflections

It is oddly quite here tonight.  The lights in the hospital room are off and the normal hustle of nurses and doctors is strangely and even uncomfortably absent.   Even Jordan’s primary nurse is sitting outside the room rather than running the usual nighttime meetings at his bedside.  The doctors that were visiting every few hours have not come by.  The supervising physician is nowhere to be seen.  And all of this points to greater stability.  

  

After the past few days, it is hard to know what stability means in the ICU.  With each blood infusion from the dialysis machine Jordan receives steroids that continue to suppress his immune system and even kill some of the T-cells he so desperately needs.  He is on scores of medications and machines to keep him functioning properly.  Hopefully this means his body is working to fight the viruses so it can begin to function on its own once again.  Hopefully we are turning that corner.    

As a parent, it is difficult to know when it is the right time to hold on and when it is the right time to let go.  It is difficult to know when to react and when to sit still; when to stand up and fight for my children and when to kneel down and pray.  It is difficult to know when experiences in their lives are for them, or for me, or for everyone. 

What I do know is that whatever the experience and whatever the outcome, I can always become better from it and I can always give my children love.  I can always take time to literally breathe in the moments I have with them and to make as many of these moments as possible.  That is what today was all about with Jordan.  In his critical condition, Heidi and I stood constantly by his bedside and traded off holding his one free hand (the other is covered by a brace to support another arterial line).  Not knowing what the day had in store and where it would end, I took time to tell him how much I love him and how grateful I am for the time he has spent in our family.  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply a few times to feel the peace and love that exists between a father and his son.  I leaned over to put my face on his and my hand on his head to connect with him as closely as I could.  I wished I could hold him in my arms.  As I did so, I was filled with the feeling that the sadness and heartache that surrounds me is one of the gifts love brings—a connection that is so deep and strong that it crosses the veil of death and extends into the eternities. 

I have also learned that significant experiences are like fountains of living water.  They don’t have one single meaning that needs to be identified to make them worth having; instead they provide, like scripture, a foundation on which new meaning can be built day after day after day to light the path ahead.  Knowing this allows me to be grateful for what is--instead of only being grateful when what is, is what I want it to be.