Each moment carries with it its own seismic shift. Sitting in the pre-procedure cubicle tethered to an i.v. on the day of my DNC I knew I would never be a mom who had not lost a child. I would forever carry with me, as a part of me, ingrained in me, the pattern and flow of loss. Part of my identity would be scarred my loosing. Because of this, all of me would always know grief.
Watching the faces of my parents and in-laws as they told jokes and laughed at the far end of my birthing suite before the final stages of labor I felt the weight of the path I was about to take. As my husband tended to our guests, shooing them at the appropriate time I knew who we were would never be the same. We would never again be just the two of us. We would always have a great responsibility to another. After this moment, we would never not experience parenthood. We, who had been two, would be forever three...or more!
And yesterday, when I sat on a crinkled section of butcher paper as a neurosurgeon inspected our son's spine and an orthopedic surgeon formed his hands into joint and socket to explain the damage to our son's hips, I knew. Even as the rehabilitation doctor explained that this initial surgery would only be the first of many all I could do was stare at his tie, covered with farm animals, half tucked into the space between the 3rd and 4th buttons of his shirt because I knew, my life would never be the same. I will never not be the mom of a child with Cerebral Palsy. Our life as parents, as a couple, as individuals all changed course yesterday.
It may surprise people that this all came crashing into my consciousness yesterday. It was over a year ago we met our son for the first time in a courthouse in China. We knew then he couldn't stand on his own much less walk unassisted. More so, it was over two years ago when we first saw his photograph, the description of his "special need" and accepted the tug of Jesus on our hearts to pursue this boy. We have always known that CP is a part of him. Until yesterday, I didn't realize it was also a part of me.
For the past year we have been searching for answers from doctors, therapists, MRI techs and teachers. We have prayed and waited and anxiously hoped for the day that our son would take his first unassisted step, or stand on his own. Yesterday we found out this day will likely never come.
I sat there staring at my husband, who was staring at the floor, as the doctors told us that, left untreated, our son's muscles would twist his bones so severely he would likely end up in a wheelchair. That in order to stop his brain's assault on his body he would require major spinal surgery followed by multiple orthopedic procedures throughout his life. That the best we could hope for was to maintain his current level of assisted walking with his walker That maybe, if we're lucky, he'll be able to use crutches. My heart broke. Moreover, my plans for the future, for mythical hiking trips and typical days in the park or walking through the mall exploded in front of me. The life I didn't even know I planned on living blew up yesterday.
A few months ago I met with an incredible woman who has spent 20 years of her life raising a child with Cerebral Palsy. As we cried and laughed and raged together at the disorder that has changed our lives she said something to me that was so profound. I asked her how do I accept this diagnosis? How do I live a life with CP? She looked me in the eye and told me "How do you accept the unacceptable? You don't." What she said gave me permission to mourn what I had lost. For months I have held on to the freedom to mourn. Yesterday, on the four hour drive home from the hospital these same words have given me the freedom to hope.
How can you accept the unacceptable? You just don't. However, the unacceptable is part of every life. Our son's story has so many unacceptable chapters; abandonment, institutionalization, Cerebral Palsy, each with it's own set of implications that could easily break him and us as we choose to parent him. The unacceptable is a part of him, and of us. Each of us has unacceptable chapters, moments, years, decades that define us, that change us, that seek to break all of us.
The beauty of this realization is that brokenness doesn't stand in the face of the Creator who healed the lame and set the demoniac free. The Savior who's spit and dust cured the blind man and who's breath brought a dead girl back to life is the same Redeemer who heals our brokenness and turns our unacceptable tragedies into hope for the future.
Yesterday, when the course of my life changed in the face of brokenness Jesus reminded me He doesn't see it as broken. He sees it as beautiful. He has invited me into His healing work and He is healing me through it. The work of redemption is in the hands of His children working together to make beauty of ashes, hope from fear. In short, the Kingdom is coming on earth as it is in Heaven. In my living room as it is in the throne room. In my heart as it is in God's heart.
As we move forward as a family I have more clarity on what my life will look like. It's doubtful this life will be easy. It most likely will include family vacations to Children's Hospitals instead of State Parks. We we likely spend more of our time in therapists offices than at soccer practice. I predict all of our children will see and understand more about bones and nerves and brains than the average adult. However, I'm not discouraged. I feel - challenged - and I like a challenge.
Yesterday my life exploded. Today a new life starts. This life will be different than my expectations. It will try me. It will take work and planning and sacrifice. It will be full of joy and hope. It will overflow in love. We will uncover the Kingdom. And it will be good!
1 comment:
Katie-This is beautiful. Your family is a blessing to mine. I am honored to walk with you as you go through life.
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