Feeling My Age

The past 36 or so hours have been a bit grueling around here. Kurt is having a side-effect issue with the immunosuppresent he's taking; as a result, he's been struggling with massive joint pain and muscle weakness. At times, he's been virtually helpless. Late last night we were trying to figure out the best way to move him just a couple of feet from a sitting to reclining position; his achy joints wouldn't allow him to just pop up and flop over. So, Mom became the leverage. At that moment, the 7 inch height, 50 pound weight, and 28 year age difference were all too apparent. I was limited in what I could do; we were pretty well stuck. 

I turned 54 last Sunday--never before have I felt my age more. I don't like to feel my limits. I found out quickly that my limits exist. I found myself trying to make a mental plan of how to get him up tomorrow morning, dress him, groom him, get him down a flight of stairs, and into the car to take him to clinic. 

It's truly humbling and my heart has never felt so much sympathy for caregivers who do this every day of their lives. It truly ages a person.

Long gone are the days when I might have looked a bit younger than my chronological age. Two months and counting of the stressor of the day can carve some pretty interesting wrinkles; any hair that was undecided about becoming a various shade of salt or pepper has now confirmed itself. I am officially my age. 

But that's not all bad, I'm finding. With this time of stress, comes a time of developing more of a matter-of-fact attitude. Making a decision is easier--, not much mincing around these days. After watching a child so near death, I have a whole new respect for truly living. Petty every-day items mean little to me--if we're going to get intense about something, let's make sure it's actually worth getting intense. Otherwise, count me out. I've also witnessed this kiddo of mine literally being given a second chance at life--that's some pretty impressive stuff. I don't intend to waste much time grousing about things that honestly don't matter. Life is, indeed, too precious. 

A greater depth of understanding has carved itself into my soul just as those new wrinkles have carved themselves into my face. So, yes, I feel my age these days--it's been earned and I'm claiming it.

And...I like it.

Behind Every Storm is Calm

Last night we had quite an impressive storm. While we were at Tom's Aunt Mary's, lightning struck a home on the end of her block severely enough that it brought out a myriad of fire trucks and emergency vehicles. When we returned to Ann's there was no power anywhere--the entire neighborhood was dark and silent. After Kurt took his meds and we chatted a bit in the dark, it seemed the appropriate thing to do to just call it a night and feel my way upstairs to bed. I opened the blind to the window and watched the lightning for awhile. It was interesting--almost a strobe-like effect, seemingly never-ending.

But it did, and this morning is calm and sunny. As I look out the window, I see no damage to anything. The power is back on and peace is restored.

Behind every storm is that reassuring calm.

A metaphor for me to remember on this journey. We've weather some storms with Kurt's health since that early morning June 30 when we brought him here; some miracles that rival that magnificent light show in the sky last night have been provided by the same loving God. 

A reminder.

For every bump in the road on his journey to recovery, there will follow a period of reassuring calm. Peace will be restored once again.

Top 10 (+ 1) of the Hospital Experience

I do believe we're nearing the end of our stay here with Kurt at the hospital. If all things work out, we'll be packing up and he'll be getting discharged tomorrow. In retrospect, here are 10 things (plus 1) that I'll remember forever from this experience:

10--Wearing a long-sleeved shirt and two layers of jackets (in July and August) in the hospital is pretty much the norm;

9--Hearing and being able to identify the "infusion complete" alarm from 50 yards in any direction;

8--Loving the smell of fresh Purell in the morning--and every other hour of the day;

7--Not loving powdered scrambled eggs in the cafeteria--I'm never eating them again--ever.

6--Learning the names of and befriending several staff members--some of the finest professionals I've ever met;

5--Learning to sleep in a well-lit waiting area with noise all around and not hearing or seeing a thing;

4--Knowing that Kurt leaves this building known as being a receiver of multiple miracles;

3--Praying that everyone becomes an organ donor;

2--Praying that no one needs an organ donor;

1--Learning that everyday, no matter what the consequence, God truly has it under control--we just need to let go and acknowledge it.

Plus 1: Live Life Like We Mean It--Every Minute, Every Day

The Letter

It's been an incredible week back here at the "campsite", aka University Hospital. It is a sliver of time that has changed the lives of Kurt, Tom, and me forever. Kurt was given life; he's handled it with quiet dignity and grace. It has and will continue to, on many levels, change his life forever.

Earlier this week the team social worker came to visit. She brought us information on the proper protocol between donor and recipient families. When I was handed the information on composing a letter, a large sense of responsibility washed over me. 

Literally, where do we start? 

Saying "thank you" is not enough; it seems appropriate, but certainly not enough. 

Telling how exciting it is to see his cheeks become rosy again, to see him see him return to an everyday life, or to see him get to eat his beloved curry again with a little salt in it seems to be almost cruel in a way. The donor's family will no longer see a future of their loved one.

Saying that it's a bittersweet time is such an understatement. It's an incredibly rough time when a loved one dies--especially a child. We don't know how old the donor was, but we do know that he or she more than likely has a parent or parents that misses this child every day. And yes, there is an unfathomable amount of tribute and love in sharing such a miraculous gift; to say too little about it would seem ungrateful on my part.   

So, I continue to think about what will be said in the letter. I want them to truly know that we know how precious this gift is. We want them to know that Kurt will treasure their treasure. We want them to know that they are to be admired and blessed for making one of the hardest decisions in their lives at one of the worst times in their lives. We want them to know that this precious gift will never be seen as anything less than a blessed miracle.

I'm still not sure it will be enough.

I will pray that God will give us the right words when the time comes--and I know He will.