Friday, October 22, 2010

And then we went home

A week of doctor prescribed home treatments, to no avail.

"You need to take her to the emergency room," he told me.

Arrived with Lanie to a city hospital because that's where The Specialists are. 

"She has to be admitted," they said.

And it went from bad to worse: restraining her, I.V. line, nose tube--the images, feelings and sounds of that quite likely burned into our memories forever--and me wearing the Mommy Mask so she wouldn't see my heart breaking, my voice speaking encouragement to ward off the warble that wanted to win, my eyes ferociously fighting tears to not form.

She was situated in her room at 1 a.m., and begged me not to leave at 7 a.m. when I had to move my car from the ER lot.

"I will be back soon!" I told her.

Nightmarish all of it, but for her: where did she go in her mind? A safe place? A dark place? Her words from earlier in the week, "I don't feel God is here."--and I recognized the awful loneliness that comes when fear attacks the sacred places. Her voice, now, so weak. She was exhausted from no sleep, and the constant poking and prodding. Hospital treatments seeming ineffective after such a positive start.

The Specialists came in and we had a long talk and agreed on next steps. Time ticked in limbo. My hope waned and wanted to buckle under my own fear load. Then, without even the opportunity to implement any next steps, X-rays showed improvements. A proposed two-day stay became 24 hours.

Nose tube removed and all that tape peeled off. The I.V. would be next to come off. And she looks at me and said of the princess band-aid covering the prick of a blood draw from that morning, "I sure hope they don't take this band-aid off. It's really going to hurt!" After all she had experienced--the band-aid?! I laughed.

"When I get this off, I'm going to cuddle you!" Lanie told me, pointing to the I.V. in her arm.

A purple popsicle, and she was a new kid. Street clothes on. We walked to the car under a full-ish moon and she told me repeatedly how it all felt and how awful it was--the relief in her voice it was over. And then we went home. Music on and we sang out loud into the night--all praise.

Home to find a special letter in the mail box from her best friend. A breakfast delivered to us in the fridge from Marshall's mom. Our day covered in prayer. Greeted with warm welcome from Shane and Erin (homecoming pictures she worked on, her words to me after not seeing me: "Mommy, don't die."), all of us girls cuddled in a heap on the couch, staying up late to watch cartoons, not wanting to let go of each other. Yawns taking over and sleep winning. It felt so good to settle Lanie into a comfy bed, in her own room.

Today, kids playing, coffee brewing, sun shining--just like always. But inside our skins, we are all changed.


Karen said...

Praise God!

Amy in Peru said...

oh. so glad it's over...

and I'm so glad that you got to cuddle some more...

we should take time to do that everyday.


amy in peru

Courtney said...

Amen. To both.

Beckie said...

God is so good! I'm so happy that it's all done. Love to you all.

6intow said...

So scary! Glad it is behind you. So hard to watch our kids go through those experiences.~Erin