Tag Archives: trauma

Shock & Awe

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A few days ago, I sat waiting once again for one of my children to undergo another surgery that was a direct result of injuries sustained in the bus crash that often feels like the albatross around my neck.  We have been doctoring for four of those years while she has dealt with debilitating migraines, out of control sinus issues, and difficulty breathing during sports.  Knowing she has allergies, we sincerely thought allergies and asthma were the cause of all of this.  Our allergist thought differently, and started doing some pretty extensive detective work.  Searching through her past medical records and knowing that no allergen treatment had been effective, he ordered more scans and sent us to an ENT.  I never once suspected what we were told the day we met with him.

Looking at this old CT scan, I don’t see anything amiss. 

The radiologist report says the most recent one is good too, but three days after it was taken she had a major sinus infection.

Well, I don’t know that I agree with that report.  See this . . . she has a deviated septum and these turbinates are completely engulfed in swollen tissues.  It is no wonder you cannot breathe out of your nose! Did some sort of trauma happen to you when you were younger?

It was at that precise moment when I felt as if someone punched me in the gut. Shock!

Trauma

Disappointment

Dismay

As the room was swirling with sinking thoughts, I tried to hold it together to hear the doctor’s suggestions and plans.

How could we have not known that she couldn’t breathe? Shock!

How did we not know that she was injured there too? Shock!

When is this ever going to end? Shock!

The prayers began. 

Ultimately, the decision was hers to make.  The doctors believed having the surgery would increase her chances of chasing her dream – to play college basketball.  Her only stipulation was the surgery could not interfere with this year’s basketball season!  She was exhausted with living this way.

Bracing ourselves for another post-surgical patient in our home, we cleared our calendars, finished up projects, and generally tied up loose ends.  In a household as busy as ours, preparations, lots of them, must be made when you need a parent at home at all times for seven days of recuperation.

As S-day approached, slowly, like a leaking pipe, fear began to ooze from my thoughts.  There are very few friends with whom I choose to share this vulnerability.  Despite my recent costume attire, I do not, even for one second, believe that I am Wonder Woman, impervious to fear and doubt.  Being afraid for my children is a pastime that I would love to retire.  Fear started to creep in, choking me, and I reached out looking for a lifeline.

God answered my prayers by calming my fears, and throughout the day, his reminders just kept billowing in.

Early in the morning:

Text from me:

Fear is consuming me.  I just wish you lived closer.

Text from my friend:

What time is surgery? We’ve been praying.

10:00 AM

I will be there.

What? This cannot be! I wish I could put into words the gift that my friend gave.  Let’s just say, her willingness to come from miles away, leave her children at home, and spend a day worried about me, more than my girl, was a priceless treasure. Awe!

Lunch at school:

Out of the blue, a fellow teacher and wonderful Christian woman shared a story with me about how God holds those who are in the darkest moments tightly to him.  Tears streamed down my face in the cafeteria as I heard words, literally breathed from God.  Awe!

Early afternoon:

An e-mail from the church secretary (and dear friend) alerted me that our pastor (and also dear friend) needed the time of the surgery.  He, too, would be coming to spend the time (which ended up being a day) with us at the surgical center. His steadfast friendship since the day of the bus crash has amazed us.  Awe!

Later in the evening:

After I shared on Facebook my prayer request for the surgery, e-mails, messages, and posts came pouring in.  These were not your average messages either.  They were heartfelt promises of prayer, practical suggestions from those who had also similar procedures done, and offers to help in any way we needed it.  Humbly awed!

Overnight:

Clothed in those prayers, I slept peacefully – which I don’t normally do. Awe!

Walking into the surgical center:

In a way only God could orchestrate, he placed two mommas (along with my pastor and friend) at the same surgical center, the same day, with the same doctor.  A little girl who my big girl mentors was having surgery immediately before her. Honestly, what are the odds?  During her dark moments of waiting, she buoyed me by giving me the biggest hug of encouragement. Just another reminder my teacher friend was right!

God does hold tightly those he loves – especially when they need it the most.

Like a small child on Christmas morning, I will never lose a sense of wonder of how he provides everything that I need, even when my light is dimmed by fear, doubt and worry.

So thankful that my God is bigger than all of life’s shocks and fills my soul with awe!

Many, LORD my God, are the wonders you have done, the things you planned for us. None can compare with you; were I to speak and tell of your deeds, they would be too many to declare. Psalm 40:5 (NIV)

Post-surgery: Okay, so this is not my actual child. She was pretty miserable so I would not take that picture - EVER!

Post-surgery: Okay, so this is not my actual child. But this bear, her parting gift, gives you a good idea of what she looked like.  They had matching gauze guards and Band-Aids.  I will admit, biasedly, that my daughter is much cuter!

The thing about grief . . . Part 1

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Drawing Copyrighted property of Reed's Run

Drawing Copyrighted property of Reed’s Run

There was a momentary pause in my writings in December.  I had originally intended to write one more blog in “The Long Road Home” series.  Then came December 14, 2012. At our house it was Clo’s 8th birthday, but for the rest of the world it will be remembered as the day that beautiful souls entered into heaven as a result of the Newtown tragedy.

Around lunchtime, I learned of a school shooting via text message. Thankfully, I didn’t learn any real details until well into the evening.  For my birthday girl’s sake, I am glad that I didn’t.  The first thing I learned was parents were waiting at a local fire hall waiting for word about their sweet babies.

Those words were all it took to push a button on a trap door in my living room floor that led to an avalanche of grief.  No matter how tightly I gripped and clawed to the edge of reality, I was sucked into a vortex of emotions.  Instantaneously, I was transported back to the night of my darkest nightmare when I was the last mom left in the school’s Media Center on February 19, 2008 – waiting, waiting, prayerfully waiting to find out where Reed was.

I collapsed into the nearest chair and sobbed.  I bawled for Reed, (and for Jesse, Emilee, and Hunter), for the dreams gone, for the children lost at Newtown, but mostly my heart ached for those parents still awaiting word.  This is one cup that I desperately wished had passed me, but sadly, I knew what is was like to walk in those parents shoes.

That trap door to my emotions spiraled out of control.  For days I was locked inside an emotional coma. I didn’t eat, sleep, or do anything well.  If I caught a glimpse on television or internet, I sank deeper into the bottomless pit of grief. Caught in the rip current and frantically swimming parallel to the shore of my life, I wasn’t getting out of it.  Inevitably, I unplugged – literally and figuratively.

Eventually, I did have to reconnect, and when I did I discovered several e-mails affirming that I wasn’t going crazy.  All were from trusted grief professionals providing comfort with the same message.  When challenged with something as senseless as losing a child in an unforeseen way, the brain tends to fracture all the emotions at the time of tragedy, hiding them in the deepest, darkest recesses of gray matter.  It is a coping mechanism.  All seems fine and then, (WHAM!), out of nowhere a switch flips – which is like your brain playing a colossal game of Hide-N-Seek – finding that splintered memory.

The messages were soothing, yes, helping me to find my footing again. But for the record, I hate that my brain still has slivers that I am inevitably going to encounter someday.  I hate that for someone who usually remains composed and logical, that grief, at times, is bigger than rational thinking and even normal body rhythms. Disheartened, I know there will always be another tragedy, because after all this isn’t heaven.

During the deepest part of my emotional coma, my husband found me one day – crying and rocking, rocking and crying.  I spoke about how I wanted to rush out to Connecticut just to rock and cry with the parents who babies hands they no longer held. I blathered on about the why and the how, when his gentle hand rested on my own.  In his own grief, he pleaded with me to stop trying to make sense of the senseless.

That’s when it really penetrated my heart (and my brain) that the place I needed to be wasn’t relying on myself or standing on my feet.  The place of healing was on my knees, asking God to fill up the hurt places in my heart and soul as well as in the hearts of anyone else, anywhere in the world, touched by tragedy.  Slowly over the coming days, the fog lifted, and I swam out of that rip current of dark grief.  Battle worn and weary, I knew that my prayers were answered.  I still don’t like my battle scars proclaiming “how I got here”, but I know my journey has created in me a new heart – one that honestly knows that I – without God – wouldn’t have survived any of it.