I Just Want My Guitar

This morning, while I folded a mountain of laundry, I watched the memorial service of Wes Phillips.  And I cried, because it was perfect.  Thanks to Jon Edwards for getting that on YouTube, and special thanks for getting a snippet of "It Is Well" on the video.  Lyn Howerzyl and I had a long Facebook conversation at midnight on the Thursday prior, with her in Pella and me in Wisconsin, about playing that song.  In the end, we decided that playing from the heart is what matters, and probably mattered more at the funerals of Beethoven and Mozart, more than the music chosen.

Last night, we invited several people to Eat and Play.  We shared a meal, dissected the problems of the day, and got our instruments out to play.  I had invited Wes the day before he died, but obviously he couldn't be with us in body.  A minute or so into out first song, I discovered three year old Graeme banging his head against our van.  He wanted to get his guitar.  His tiny guitar, which has been loved to a point where it has only three strings, the bridge is barely hanging on, his sheets have been ripped from sleeping with it, was at home. Eventually I distracted him with food.  We had a fabulous time playing and singing together.  Our kids drifted in out, grabbing whatever instrument caught their eye.  We ended with "We Shall Overcome," a favorite of mine.

When we got home, Graeme immediately found his guitar, and it went to bed with him.  As I watched the service, and listened to Pastor Kirsten talk about the Psalms, about people sitting around trying to fix the world's problems, and settling it by playing their instruments together and singing songs, I understood why Graeme needed his guitar, and why we all left Eat and Play feeling better about the world again.   Music always fixes it.

As I put the laundry away this morning, Graeme's older sister brought his guitar to me to tighten a loose string.  She asked what I was watching, so I tried to explain that all the people were remembering Mr. Wes.  And I hope, as my little boy grows into a musician (because he will) he also shows the kindness and innate understanding that only a musical genius could, the kindness that Mr. Wes shared with us.

1/3 of the sleep

The last week or so has been very long.  First, Hanna with her ear hurting (fluid), then Graeme with his ear hurting (ear infection), then both just getting sicker and sicker until we had to go back to the doctor on Saturday morning to get stronger antibiotics and steroids.  Everyone was feeling better yesterday and then coughed all night, so another phone call to the doctor for more steroids.  Poor babies.

But poor mom and dad too.  Yes, I'm asking for sympathy here, because when your babies are sick it takes twice as much energy, and on a third of the sleep.  Which means arguments and yelling at 2 a.m. because you just finally fell asleep for the third time when one of the children woke up from the incessant coughing, and its the other person's turn, or because you don't get up fast enough and the crying turns to screaming.  Or the sippy cup is downstairs or the tylenol is gone or the child just threw the tylenol at you or the child just dumped the albuterol, or .....

And 99% of it comes from this place of deep exhaustion, both physically and emotionally.  We all just want to feel better and get some sleep.  We have work tomorrow.  I don't think we want to be mean, but we can be.

And there it is.  Part of me wishes I didn't have work so I could stay home and love on my babies.  And even as I sit at work and try to wake up, I'm wondering if I should have taken another sick day.  But then my students come in, and I feel alive again.  I dug out a lesson I haven't done in years, creating music using objects to represent sounds.  And watching the kids work together and creating their masterpieces makes it all better for a while.  This is why I teach, this is why we welcomed our fabulous child care provider into our family to love on our babies like they are her own, this is why it is good to step away from the children sometimes.  In a few weeks, this will be a memory, and it won't seem as bad as it feels right now.  I feel ready to go home and take care of my babies.

F*** Cancer

I've had "The Long and Winding Road" by the Beatles in my head for a few days.  I feel like our road has taken another twist with my mom's breast cancer diagnosis.  I know so many people who have been on a similar road with their mothers, grandmothers, sisters, daughters, aunts, etc.  I think you'd have to live in a cave to not know someone who has been affected in some way.

The way ahead is so uncertain.   Maybe this will take care of it, maybe not.  I had a feeling when mom told me she found a lump.  And tried to assure me that it was just a cyst.  And yet, here we are.  Sitting in a waiting room outside of an operating room watching "Bonanza," while we digest our hospital cafeteria food.

As I was talking to mom in pre-op I noticed how much older she suddenly seems.  She has had quite the winding road, between her Crohn's Disease, broken bones, complications and side effects from medications.  And she is still 95 pounds of strength and tough, generosity and caring.  But, how much more of all of that can her body take?   Hasn't she had enough?

And so we continue down the long and winding road, that at least is certain.  Where will this twist take us?   What will be around this bend?  Will it lead us home, like in the song?  What is home?  It seems that this episode of "Bonanza" is fixing itself.  Will our road straighten?  We'll stay tuned.

Two years!

Slane raised her hand during Prayers of the People on Sunday and prayed for Graeme's upcoming birthday.  I could feel the collective thoughts of those in the sanctuary.  "Has is been that long?" and "That's impossible," and "Time flies."  I can't believe it either.  Two years since we welcomed our son into the world, and we can't imagine life without him.

Actually, I've been reflecting on Graeme's birth for a couple of weeks now.  I imagine that it will always be the one that can bring me to tears and humble me in a way the births of the girls won't.  It isn't that their births aren't important or special or that I don't remember them, it's just that his birth equals near death for me, and I'm guessing one never forgets an experience like that.

I truly cannot imagine what our lives would be like without Mr. G.  Over the last year, I have cherished the relationships he is forming with his sisters, the cuddles (and broken glasses) he has given Dan and I, the love of trains, cars, planes, balls, and wrestling, and his musical development (this guy is destined to be a performer of some kind).  I even cherish the collective sighs from everyone when he destroys yet another of Slane's stories or tips over Hanna's milk again.

Graeme was our surprise.  We were still on the fence about having a third child, and finding out about him was a shock.  I cried for a while, and was too embarrassed to tell anyone for a long time.  We panicked, because we have a tiny two bedroom house, and cars that only fit two car seats.  We kept adding to the list why he could not come when he did, but of course nature rules and he came anyway.  Now, in hindsight, I wouldn't have had it any other way.  I cannot imagine being pregnant and having another child at this point in our lives, and I'm glad he came when he did.

That isn't to say that it isn't hard.  Every day is hard.  But every day is a little easier too.  And every night, after we check in on our (hopefully) sleeping children to make sure they have enough blankets, and to take the drum out of the crib, we talk about these amazing little creatures.  The laundry is so behind that no one has matched socks, there are toys strewn about the house, we forgot to practice Slane's spelling words, and that one library book is still missing, but all is right with our world, at least in that moment.

These days are gifts that Dan almost got to experience by himself, without me.  But, I survived.  For us, for me, the miracle happened.  It is amazing how my body, with the help of prayers and modern medicine, recovered.  It still comes up sometimes.  Recently a coworker asked if I saw an aura when I almost died.  I didn't.  Last winter Hanna was wearing her "My Mommy Wouldn't Be Here If It Wasn't For a Blood Donor" shirt at the science center and someone stopped me and told me that her shirt sent a powerful statement.  The story came up when we got to do a photo shoot for Life Serve blood center too.  In September we got to see a life flight helicopter, and show the kids how it worked, plus talk to the pilot about it.  It was humbling to see how it was equipped to potentially save any patient.

It's been two years.  The details are starting to fade, but the memories of being cared for and loved, and the feelings of survivorship stick around.  Thank you again for all you did for us.  We continue to be grateful and humbled by the outpouring of care that came our way.  We continue to pay it forward in any way we can.  And we continue to love on our sweet, curious, active little two year old boy.


  

end of summer

A few weeks ago, I was asked by our pastor to give the sermon on the Sunday following Synod School.  I agreed, not sure what I was really getting myself into.  I spent a lot of time on this, and several people have asked to read it.  So here it is, including a link to a partial recording of the song.  I think I have a video of one of my own choirs performing it, but I'm not going to take time to find that today.  I will keep looking.  Please keep in mind that I am not a theologian.

My scripture is Psalm 17 from The Message.

It seems to me that most of you would be better qualified to be standing here, yet here I am. I think this may have come about because I mentioned once that I had written sermons during my time working with A Christian Ministry in the National Parks in Yellowstone. Though I spent more time making salads than writing sermons, Yellowstone is the first time I truly understood ministry.

When I was deciding what to talk about, I considered digging out my journal from Yellowstone and using that, but it would have required a few hours of digging in the basement, and its doubtful that Old Faithful will go off during this service, so I don't need to plan for the interruption. I considered talking about the poetry of Metallica or the chord structure of a Green Day song, or even the form of a Motown song, but I’ll have to do that at least 14 times at school in just a few weeks. I considered talking about community and taking care of each other, but you don’t need me to tell you how awesome you are. I even thought about a racing analogy, since I’ve just spent my last two days selling tickets at the Speedway, but I saw more people than race cars.

One day while I was thinking through all of these topics, a song popped into my head. Usually when a song pops into my head, there is a reason, so I dug out the music and played through it and this is what you are getting. I came across this song during the summer of 2002 at a choral reading session. I brought it back to the choirs I was teaching, and it was their favorite song. They insisted on rehearsing it every day. The music for To Be Strong was written by Audrey Snyder, but the poetry was written by Ingrid Wendt, who teaches the process of writing poetry to teachers. I’ve broken the song up line by line.

There’s a strength in the moon, that silent pulls the tide, there’s a strength in the sun, gently pushing night aside.

Have you ever wondered about why things happen? How things work out the way they do? Was it a coincidence or meant to happen to show you something? This song is about finding strength in nature and pulling from that for your own strength. I’d like to think that maybe God lets us see these strengths both to give us examples of ways to get through things, but to also show us that we already have strength put in us on purpose. I don’t think nature thinks about what it does, and I don’t think the strongest people among us think about being strong. They just are.

I don’t think the moon thinks about how it needs to be strong enough to control the tides here on earth. The sun doesn’t really push night aside, it is just doing its job. But the image makes you think a bit. Neither of those things happens suddenly, but more gradually.

The smallest feathers of a bird will gravity defy.

Keep your eye on me; hide me under the cool wing feathers from the wicked who are out to get me, from mortal enemies closing in, David says in the Psalm. Have you ever thought about those feathers? I know when feathers make their way out of my down winter coat, I don’t stop to think about the bird from whom they came. They seem so light and fluffy, how can they be strong? And defying gravity? I definitely don’t think about that, unless I’m listening to Idina Menzel sing Defying Gravity from the musical Wicked. But I have seen a turkey protect her babies under her wing, and this is much the way that God protects us. Maybe those feathers are stronger than we thought.

There’s a strength in listening and a strength in being heard.

When Slane started to talk, I had to learn a new skill. Not only interpretation, but listening carefully to what she is saying. Now you all have heard her and know that sometimes this takes a great deal of patience. But she deserves for me to keep myself from interrupting her sometimes long explanations and descriptions. This hit home at her preschool parent teacher conference when she talked for 95% of our conference time. When I asked her why, she simply told me that she finally got her teacher to herself. It is hard to focus and acknowledge another person’s thoughts. Asking someone about their day and then actually listening to the answer or engaging with their answer is not easy, but so important. David starts this Psalm with the word listen. Listen while I build my case, O God. He’s praying to be heard.

There’s a strength in knowing when to use important words.

Something about this image got me thinking about hip-hop. Paint grace-graffiti on the fences, take in your frightened children who are running from the neighborhood bullies straight to you. I teach hip-hop history. I start with disco, then move into the four pillars of hip-hop with examples and activities to go with each. For the MC or rapper, we play a basic rhyming game to illustrate how difficult it can be. We watch a demonstration of scratching and turntables to learn about the DJ. We watch a video of old school breakdancers vs. current breakdancers from around the world. And we make our own graffiti. We talk about how it is illegal, and the different kinds (tagging vs. art), and then each student makes their name graffiti style and we hang it up around the school. Initially, the graf writers, as they are called, just wanted a voice. They kept it short and simple, but they got to express themselves in a way that they never could before. Many of them grew up in poverty in the South Bronx, and writing their name or phrase on a train car was their way out. But they had to know what to write. We have to think through what we say and how we say it, something I am terrible at doing. But God takes me, and all of us, in anyway, and helps us find the words we need, if we ask. And sometimes it is obvious, like the messages in early graffiti.

It takes courage to admit that there are still some things to learn.

The song shifts here from strength to courage and power. It steps back from strength that occurs naturally to the power found in nature or strength that takes some effort. It takes effort to admit that you just might not know all of the answers. You might need to take a step back and look at a situation from a different perspective. You might need to ask someone about their experience in a similar situation. You might be humbled by their answers. Even David does this, when he calls to God for an answer after realizing he doesn’t have his own.

There is power in a mountain whose voice can shake our home.

For two years I lived in Hawthorne, Nevada. Hawthorne is the county seat of Mineral County, which borders California. The whole town sits in about a square mile of high desert in the shadow of Mount Grant, near the shores of Walker Lake. It is 40 miles from the Walker River Paiute Reservation, 75 miles from Yosemite, 70 miles from Top Gun (yes, like the movie), and 5 hours from Las Vegas. It is surrounded by miles of bunkers full of ammunition, which has been stored there since the end of WW2. During the war it was a major manufacturer of the ammo used overseas. The bunkers belong to the army, also the town’s main employer. Most of my students’ parents worked on “the base” working with all of that ammo. It was not unusual for me to hear thunder and then hear a student say, “oh, mom didn’t tell me they were blowing things up today.” Powerful thunder indeed.

Being near Top Gun meant that sometimes while driving to nearby towns I would get through a mountain pass only to be buzzed by jets flying over. And the sounds of jets echoing off of mountains, again, powerful. You wouldn’t think that a mountain would have a voice, or that a ginormous, thousands of feet high mountain would be powerful, but it certainly can be. I’m sure my experience was just a taste of what Moses felt when he was on the mountain listening to God speak.

There is power in a seed whose roots can split a stone.

Earlier this week, we planted some carrots and peas. The carrot seeds especially are very tiny. Now, how can that be powerful? Perhaps in the food it provides, what our kids are learning about gardening, or even just in the miracle that is a seed growing into a plant? Now, what about that pine cone. How is that powerful? In Yellowstone, the lodgepole pine is the most prevalent tree. The lodgepoles suffered the worst during the big fire of 1988. But they were also one of the first trees to return after the fires. How? The pine cones are fire ready. In fact, they only release their seeds after a fire. It takes the heat to open the cones up. So the seed is powerful. But think about the stone or boulder that might split. To clock in at the Iowa Speedway I have to walk past a huge rock out front. If you’ve been to the administration building, you can’t miss the rock with a carving of Rusty Wallace in it. In the last couple of years, I’ve noticed that it has split. I have no idea how or what did it, but there is a definite crack where there wasn’t one before. And imagine if it was more than extreme weather changes, but a seed growing through it.

So, putting all of that together, I have seen trees growing out of stones. And a seed started it. That is powerful.

A tree can bend and shiver yet stand firm against the storm.

I’m going to go back to Yellowstone for this one. The other kind of tree that is seen the most there is the aspen. But they don’t grow alone. An aspen grove is not really a grove, it is one tree with one root system. If one part becomes weak, it has all of the rest to support it. The same is true for us. If one of us is sick or weak or experiencing trouble in some way, we are all there to support. I’ve experienced this first hand. When Graeme was born, you were supporting me, and us, before I even work up in ICU listening to James Brown. You were our root system. In fact, when checking the analytics on our blog, it seems our root system spread to many countries and a few hundred people. You each are part of someone else’s root system. Isn’t that one of the main reasons we become part of a church? Psalm 18 starts out by stating this in another way. David says, I love you God, you make me strong. God is bedrock under my feet, the castle in which I live, my rescuing knight. I think this could be replaced with God is my root system, the aspen tree of which I am a part, my rescuer.

There is power in numbers and a power in being one.

I witnessed a protest during my second year of teaching. Our principal had been placed on administrative leave, and his son happened to be in 8th grade in our building. While many of the teachers were in a training and substitutes were covering our classes, the son had schemed with his friends and most of our students got up and walked out of class at the same time and began to run around the campus. The chaos that resulted was scary for us as we watched students running crazily away from the superintendent and even the police chief for an hour. Eventually it was a coworker who suggested we corral the students into the gym and the same teacher who explained to the students what was happening and why their response was not appropriate. She almost single handedly calmed down our students and sent them back to class. Power in numbers: to scare or use for good, to be armies or angels. Power in being one: to stand against the status quo or calm down the masses, to write Psalms in solitude that so often are exactly how we are feeling, or to hang on a cross for us.

There is power in a smile and in a pair of open arms. When a heart’s about to shatter there is power in a song.

Have you ever waited for your luggage to return at an airport? You can always tell the people who have been separated for a while. The hugs and smiles rejuvenate everyone around them. I often feel that way just walking into church. And isn’t it often music that rejuvenates our souls? When I’m at my lowest, I look for a song to change my outlook. I’m not as cool as David, I don’t write my own songs to express my feelings, but I might just sing along with someone else’s song.

And if my life should suddenly go wrong, when the worst I could imagine come to pass. I’ll look around, remembering what I’ve found in nature’s many ways of being strong.

The Incredibles may be one of my favorite movies. I love the analogies it presents in each family member and their role in the family. I love how the Strong Mr. Incredible comes to realize that he is not as strong as he thought, and that ultimately his strength is not in his muscles, impressive as they are. He figures out that the worst thing that could happen to him is being separated from his family, who in his case, complement his super power abilities in every way. Mrs. Incredible is flexible and can bend and stretch in a way that only moms can. The eldest child, Violet, is a teen learning how to be herself, and her power is creating invisible force fields. Dash can run so fast that he can move over water, and Jack Jack, the baby, doesn’t know his super power yet, but really it is the ability to change powers, from laser eyes to being a dead weight or a monster in a matter of seconds. I don’t know anyone like that. When they work together, they are able to overcome their enemy, Syndrome, who is trying to be a super hero with invented powers and they become one.

We each have a super power that make us naturally strong, like the moon pulling the tide or the feather defying gravity. God gave them to us, not to keep them to ourselves, but to use them. And I believe that our strengths are something that we do without thinking because they are so much a part of us. When we put these together, we are the aspen tree, held together by our roots though we stand individually. We have the strength to stay on the trail, to not give up. We are strong, and when we forget, we just have to look around us at all of the examples that nature provides. We do have the power.

Moments of solitude, worst-case scenarios, and gratitude.

All three of our children were delivered by Caesarean Section. Before Sara gave birth each time, as surgical staff prepared Sara for surgery and delivery, nurses gave me a set of hospital scrubs and left me alone in a long moment of solitude. It may have only been a few minutes, but the wait felt like an hour. 

During the moment of solitude before Graeme was born, I journaled. I reflected on Slane and Hanna and their personalities. I also posed, perhaps presciently, the question of the worst-case senario...which we almost experienced. Now, on the other side, our life has returned to unremarkable routine, full of laundry, meals, and foul diapers. 

In the year since Graeme's birth the question I get most often is, "How do you do it?" "I don't know," I answer. This is half true. We do it because we have help and we have changed our focus.

If you are reading this, you most likely helped us. Sara and I will spend the rest of our lives gladly paying forward the kindness and support you gave us in that worst-case senario. There is a composition book that documents many of the ways that you supported us. In her blog post, Sara attempted to catalog all the ways you supported us, but I don't know that all the blogs in the world could document all the prayers spoken, meals made, and other acts of kindness we have received in the past year.

Lamentations on the decline of community seem to be popular right now, but I no longer believe them to be true. Our family and many ways we have been cared for is a testament to the reality and power of the community that exists in our midst.

We have also changed our focus. We shop less. We watch less television. We spend less time documenting our lives for posterity or the ephemeral thrills of blogs, Facebook, and Twitter. Instead, we take bike rides, we read, we wrestle, we cuddle, we dance, we create art, we cook, we take daylong adventures. We spend time with family, friends, and each other.

"It takes a village to raise a child," the old saying goes. Thank you for joining us in the village.

Reality

Twelve months ago our worst case scenario almost became reality.  We welcomed our baby boy and then I hemorrhaged while in recovery from the c-section.  I woke up in a different hospital with a ventilator tube down my throat and James Brown playing in my ear.  I spent 2 1/2 days in the ICU before I was moved up to the Mother and Babies floor, but without a baby since Graeme stayed in Grinnell.  I first held him when he was five days old.

The week before all of that happened, we had talked about the possibility of a hysterectomy.  We talked about taking care of our kids alone if something awful happened to either of us.  We had acquaintances who didn't survive the birth of their children and wanted to be ready if that happened to me.  We both decided we would stay in Grinnell and not move closer to our parents because we had a good community of support in Grinnell.  We had no idea that community would be tested when Graeme was born.

We've had quite a year, and you (if you are reading this) helped take care of us.  Even if it was only to send positive thoughts and prayers, you helped more than you know.  You also sent flowers, took pictures, held a baby, provided food, mowed our lawn, raked our leaves, washed countless loads of laundry, scrubbed our floors and bathroom, did dishes, brought blood in your trooper car, drove straight through from Ohio to take care of your nephew, took the older kids to basketball games and gymnastics, sent a card, sent cash, sent gift cards, "Sara-sat," spent the night, stopped by the hospital or our house, posted positive messages, asked your friends to pray, spent an extra week taking care of our kids, canned our vegetables, donated blood,  took a collection and brought us the diapers and clothes you bought with the money, painted our bathroom (and donated a light fixture for it), created an amazing diaper tricycle, brought gifts for Slane and Hanna, visited my mom who was in a different ICU at the same time (my poor sister and dad), sat in the waiting room, coordinated all of that care, and loved on all of the McCues.  We can never thank you enough.  Seriously.

We also owe so much thanks to the medical staff who kept me alive:  the anesthesiologist who stayed by my side, the nurse who was handed a clipboard and told to chart, the flight crew on the helicopter (though I learned about that the next day), the surgeons, my amazing OB/GYN (who took the time to talk us through everything that happened), the ICU nurses, the Mothers and Babies nurses,  the nurses back in Grinnell who were feeding and changing a "motherless" baby (and who also took pictures and kept a list of who visited), the doctors at Mercy, the OT and even the PT.
   
My recovery was actually quite rapid, though I don't remember a lot of it.  There are things I know I missed. We don't have a family picture from when Graeme was born.  We didn't get newborn pictures taken, in fact, the only newborn pictures we have are the ones the nurses took.  My milk didn't come in, and I missed nursing Graeme. I was at risk of rejecting the 30 units of blood product that I had been given (thankfully nobody told me that, and I didn't reject it). I did get sick a few days after I got home (C. Diff), but antibiotics helped with that.  I still have dizzy spells, but all in all, I bounced back.  I think we both have had some Post Traumatic Stress these last few weeks leading up to the anniversary, but we're okay.

When Slane was baptized, her Godmother gave me an essay written by Anna Quindlen.  Anna writes about the moments with her children that she doesn't remember because she was so busy trying to get to the next thing.  If anything, everything that has happened in the last year has taught us to slow down and be a part of every moment.  It isn't easy and we aren't always successful.  But we do focus on experiences.  We get out and do stuff.  Initially it was to show the community that we are okay.  But now, it is to spend those moments as a family.

Life with three kids under the age of four, while working full time, is crazy.  But, we're all relatively healthy. We're all here.  This is reality.

                                                                                August 2013

checking pockets

I don't usually check pockets when I'm doing laundry.  That is the rule:  if you don't want it washed, don't leave it in your pocket.  For some reason, on Sunday night, I checked the pockets of a pair of Dan's pants.  Out fell that orange cream burst chapstick.  The significance of that was not lost on me, and I'll get to that in a bit.

Graeme had a rough week, therefore we had a rough week.  I didn't like the sound of his breathing, so Dan took him to the ER on Wednesday.  They said he has a cold and sent him home.  So, for two more nights we slept in one hour shifts since that was the longest Graeme was sleeping.  We had planned a weekend away, and then on Thursday Hanna had a fever.  And on Friday.  And we were exhausted and run-down but not wanting to leave our sick kids with others.  We were assured that we should do exactly that, so we did.

My dear Uncle Bill also had a heart attack last week, and emergency bypass surgery.  He is in the ICU, exactly where I was 4 months ago.  So, we took a couple of hours to stop by and see the family and offer our help with anything needed.  Dan knows his way around the ICU waiting room, so got the code to the family room and other hospitality amenities the hospital offers to families waiting for any news of their loved ones on the other side of the doors.  We even asked if our favorite ICU nurse was working.  In the cafeteria, we ran into one of our favorite OB nurses.  My uncle will have a long, slow road of recovery in front of him.  

And then on Sunday I found that chapstick again.  Graeme is feeling better.  He slept in 3 hour stretches last night and woke up chatty each time he woke up.  I can't hear his breathing as much, and his appetite is coming back.  He had a checkup this morning and is at 16 pounds 12 ounces.  We anxiously await warmer weather and hopefully an increase in his sleeping.  We'll see.

Day 9.

Day 9.  We thought we would be home by now, but Graeme had a bit of a rough night and needed oxygen for an hour or so.

It has been a long haul for us.  I know many people who have spent days in the hospital with their loved ones, watching them improve.  It seems to take forever.  I'm not sure I have ever truly understood how exhausting a hospital can be.  I think the hardest part might actually be trying to take care of the life that seems to pass by in the meantime.  We've been trying to take care of Hanna's ear infection issues, make sure Slane gets to and from preschool, get meals figured out and let people know how they can help.  And all from a distance or during our sporadic time at work trying to catch up there.

I miss my girls.  I miss watching them play.  I miss how they interact with their brother.  I miss spending more than a couple of hours at a time with Dan.  I miss normal routine.  I miss dinner together.

I know that soon this will all be a memory and I will catch up on sleep.  I will have a chance to reciprocate all of the wonderful things people have done for us.  I will forget the hospital cafeteria hours.  I will not find myself comparing hospitals.  I will not steal yet another chocolate milk from the nourishment room.  I will drink decent coffee.

I will have my whole family in one place.  Soon enough.

Graeme's breathing treatments

We've mentioned in our posts that Graeme has received breathing treatments. He gets Vapotherm, suctioning, and CPT (Chest Physical Therapy).

Vapotherm

Vapotherm - it's a humidifier...in your nose! This has helped Graeme breathe better, giving him a high volume of warm, moist, oxygen-rich air. His volume maxed out at 17L/min (an average adult breathes 6L/min) and his O₂ levels maxed at 40% (normal atmospheric oxygen is 21%). The air is warmed to body temperature, 37°C (98.6°F).
I want one of these - who wouldn't want one of these, especially on dry winter mornings.

Suctioning

To suck the massive amounts of mucus out of his body, there's a vacuum pump with a long tube and three attachments. One is for his nostrils, one is for his mouth, and one, with a long straw for "deep suctioning", is for his airways. he tolerates suctioning his mouth, dislikes suctioning his nose, and hates deep suctioning.

Chest Physical Therapy (CPT)

Graeme has received CPT, rhythmic drumming on his chest and back, to help loosen the mucus in his lungs and airways. (Learn more about the science of CPT here.) Here's what it looks and sounds like:

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He continues to receive all three, but we hope to wean him of the Vapotherm tomorrow. Ending this treatment is his next step toward coming home.

All I want is routine and a healthy family. Is that too much to ask?

I've felt like this guy this week:



Each of those plates and bowls represents a child, a spouse, a work project, a household chore, an item on the to-do list. In real life, it feels more like this:



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This week I have tried to make sense of why Graeme's hospitalization bothers me so much more than Sara's did. Our preparations before Graeme's birth helped us cope with the many complications we faced following his delivery. We would function as a less-than-two parent household for several weeks but we had a plan. My parents arrived before Graeme's delivery and were able to keep the girls on their daily routines, well fed and rested (Thanks, Mom and Dad!). We had each made arrangements at work so we could focus on welcoming Graeme into our family. I scheduled a couple of weeks away from the office with my teammates covering essential functions (Thanks, Dawn, Mallory, and Lori!). Sara's former co-teacher came back to be her long-term substitute (Thanks, Ralph and Brianna!). Family, friends, and church members coalesced and took care of our day-to-day needs - laundry, vacuuming, sweeping, dishes. We still have meals in our freezer and unused gift cards. (Thanks again, everyone! Your generosity continues to both humble and serve us.)

As with Sara's lengthy hospital stay, friends and family have walked the mile with us, bearing the load and helping out as Graeme suffers through this illness. On Facebook, friends articulate our frustrations, our indignation about why we need another trip to the hospital. As I type this, my parents are traveling the 600 miles from their home to ours so they can help us at home and the hospital. My mother-in-law cleaned the house one day this week. Friends from church lent a vacuum when ours died. Friends and family have brought and bought meals, run laundry loads, and helped watch and feed the girls. Physicians, nurses, techs, and respiratory therapists in Grinnell and Blank have done their best to diagnose Graeme's disease and treat it while easing his discomfort.

Friends have even sent messengers: Erik, one of Blank's chaplains, knocked at Graeme's hospital door Thursday morning. "Tom read about Graeme on Facebook and sent me," he said. Tom, a college friend of mine, went to seminary with Erik. We traded parenting stories before praying for Graeme's healing and peace for Sara and me.

Despite all of this care, compassion, and support, I feel unsettled. I want a script, a plan even though there is little doubt in how the story ends. Eventually, his little body will make enough antibodies to defeat the virus. He will stop overproducing mucus and his tiny lungs will work without the help of Vapotherms, oxygen tubes, or albuterol. He'll take a bottle again instead of an NG tube. He'll sleep in his bassinet rocker (thanks again, Dan and Jenn!) and, perhaps, start sleeping through the night.

Routine. I crave it, yet it eludes us.

Orange Cream Burst Chapstick

At some point when I was in the ICU back in October I realized that "my lips hurt real bad."  My sister happened to be there and handed over the chapstick she had in her pocket.  Orange Cream Burst.  Deciding that chapstick necessity won out over flavor choice, I accepted.  And used it the entire time I was in the hospital, every time slightly rolling my eyes at the orangeness of the chapstick.  When I got home from the hospital, I lost the orange cream burst chapstick and opted for the unflavored chapstick waiting for me on my dresser.

Fast forward 10 weeks.  Hanna had an appointment Monday morning at 8:30.  Dan decided to go into work early, leaving me with all three kids to get ready, and 45 minutes to do it.  I skipped breakfast and  left Graeme half fed in his jammies. then dropped him and Slane at daycare (for no more than 2 hours, I had said).  Hanna' appointment went well, and while there I called our clinic twice trying to get Graeme in, and got the recorded message both times.  I decided to drive over and see if they were actually closed, and they were open, just were booked full for the day and Dr. P wanted to leave by lunch.  When I explained that Graeme was not breathing well and hacking, they said to go get him and bring him in.

So I went to daycare and switched kids, thinking it would go quickly.  Dr. P didn't like the sounds of things, so he sent us to the hospital for a chest xray.  Then we went back and he decided to send us back to the hospital for admittance.  I texted daycare, asking if she could now keep the girls for the rest of the day.  She said yes.  I called Dan, and he said he would drop by after work.

My hospital experience left Dan much more traumatized than me.  I wasn't awake for most of it.  My mom used to drag me to the hospital with her all the time, so sickness and the medical process doesn't scare me or make me nervous.  But I didn't go through what Dan did.  I understood his reluctance to visit and didn't push it--then.

The rest of Monday and Tuesday Graeme seemed a little better but not great.  Dan stayed with him Monday night and I stayed Tuesday.  When Dan and the girls left, Slane almost cried when I said goodbye.  She remembers when I didn't come home in October.  Graeme was really fussy and coughing quite a bit Tuesday night and finally around 11:30 our nurse talked me into letting her take him to the nurses station so I could rest.  So I got comfy, changed into pajama pants, read a bit, then tried to sleep.  I had maybe been out for 15 minutes when she came running in with Graeme, her supervisor right behind, and they pressed the Code Blue running.  I sat up and watched several people come running into the room as they got him going on oxygen and the nebulizer.  He had been sleeping, woke up crying, and then the cries almost stopped.  I tried to stay out of the way and get my stuff out of the way.  There was some debate then about calling Blank, and Dr. P was called in.  By then it was 1 a.m. and he ordered another chest xray and bloodwork.  Also in that time Graeme almost stopped breathing again.  Dr. P came in and made the decision to call Blank.  Our nurse later said that our hospital could take care of babies, but with a mostly geriatric crowd, would feel more comfortable sending Graeme to people who only dealt with babies and could give him more concentrated care.

I tried and tried to call Dan, in between packing up, changing to jeans, taking things out to the car and moving the car to the ER parking lot.  The chapstick I had been carrying was close to empty, and when I found some of Slane's cherry chapstick in the car I grabbed it.  Finally I remembered that Dave and Julie were still in town and called Dave, asking him to please wake Dan up.  Dave came to the hospital first, and was surprised that Dan wasn't there, then he went to our house.  When Dan finally was awake and called me, he was hesitant to do anything.  He was going to get the girls to daycare and go into work.  When I told the nurses that, they said, "he'll call back in an hour and change his mind."  I thought that too, but understood his hesitation.  A little Post Traumatic Stress, anyone?  He did call back about 20 minutes later and said he would take the girls to daycare and then head to Des Moines.  A while late he called again, asking when the ambulance would be there, because he was going to follow us to Des Moines, while Dave and Julie stayed with the girls.

The transport team came, got an IV started, and wheeled Graeme to the emergency doors so they could get him on the ambulance.  When we walked out to it, I was surprised to see that it was no ordinary ambulance.  It was a badass ambulance that nobody on the roads would want to mess with.  I climbed in, directed the driver back to West Street, and we were off.  He drove 85 most of the way and we listened to WHO radio.  It reminded me of riding in the truck with my dad, watching all of the tiny cars around us.  I was secretly hoping he would turn on the siren and the flashy lights, but he didn't.

It was crazy at first when we got here.  The team was filling the nurses and residents in on what they did during transport, Dan came in, we were trying to answer all kinds of questions, and they were getting Graeme settled as well.

By yesterday afternoon, I was beyond exhausted.  It had been 30 hours and I had gotten that almost sleep, but that was it.  Our pastor drove up to visit, and I went back to town with her, picked up the girls and heated up one of our frozen casseroles while Dan stayed with Graeme for the night.  My mom had come and almost finished the laundry, vacuumed, and was working on dishes.  She is a good mom.  After dinner, Slane noticed me using her cherry chapstick and demanded that I give it back, so I did.  Then Slane went to a basketball game with Kirsten and Lydia, Hanna went to bed, and I worked to put away the laundry that had been piling up for two weeks.  As I was moving baskets around, I found the orange cream burst chapstick.

And here I am, back at the hospital, after restful sleep, using orange cream burst chapstick.

Graeme is about the same.  His nurse from yesterday was just in and said he looks much better.  He was struggling so much that it exhausted him.  Now, he is getting rest, and that is the most important thing.

Slane especially misses him, and I spent a lot of time explaining that he is sick but is going to get better and will come home soon.  I wish she could come see him, but we were encouraged to keep children away as so many kids on this floor have the same respiratory issues and we don't want to spread it.  We will all be together soon, and maybe I'll get new chapstick soon too.  
  

...Another post written from a hospital room.

Graeme, asleep at Blank Children's.

Graeme has RSV: a highly contagious respiratory virus that infects lungs and airways. It affects infants most severely. He started showing symptoms this weekend. He was checked Monday, which led to a chest x-ray and a hospital stay. Early this morning his labored breathing became difficult. Grinnell Regional dispatched the Blankmobile. Graeme checked into Blank Children's about 4 a.m. this morning. He's received several different breathing treatments over the past three days. The most effective is Vapotherm—a warm, moist, oxygenated airflow intended to stent his airways and air sacs.

Sara and I are so grateful for the thoughts, prayers, calls, texts, Facebook messages, and other encouragement you have sent our way. We're grateful for the talented, compassionate medical staffs at Grinnell Regional and Blank Children's and the excellent care he has received.

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I am not processing this well, and that's no surprise. (Sara will chime in with a post later this week.) All the poise I had with Sara's complications? Absent, mostly. His illness snuck up on us on a lazy, at-home weekend between Christmas and New Year's. At church on Sunday, I politely dismissed concerns from a mother of five (and grandmother of many) who thought Graeme's cough sounded serious.

"At his two month check-up, the doctor said the cough was just a little phlegm in the throat. He's fine," I said.

After Hanna's first ENT appointment (a prelude to tubes), Sara took Graeme to the doctor, just to be safe. I went on to work. I met them in his hospital room before picking up the girls from daycare and taking them to Slane's favorite restaurant, Pizza Ranch. Sara and I traded kids and places, spending our first New Year's apart in a decade.

Tuesday was Family Day at the hospital. The girls were (mostly) well behaved, bouncing off the walls on occasion. The nebulizer treatments and steroid shot seemed to help. Sara took them to dinner with our friends Dave and Julie. After dinner, we swapped kids and places. I got the girls down, did some housework, topped off the rink, and fell into a deep sleep.

At 2 a.m. I awoke to Dave standing over me.

"Sara called. They're transferring Graeme to Des Moines," he said.

This is the part where I lost my poise. Awaken from deep sleep (Sara called five times before Dave came over), I still was not ready to accept that Graeme was very ill and our routine (such as it is) would be on hiatus.

"I'll go in the morning. I have to take the girls to daycare. There are important meetings and preparations for work," I may or may not have said aloud. The internal monologue was unreliable.

The Blank Children's Pediatric Support Team vehicle. AKA "The Blankmobile"

I gathered enough of my wits to accept Dave and Julie's offer to watch the girls and get them to daycare. I packed a bag and thumbed out texts to family and friends. Dave drove me to the hospital to our car. I turned the key and hit the road, trailing the Blankmobile (Thanks, Phil!) down Interstate 80 to Des Moines. I had never seen I-80 so empty of cars and trucks. I arrived just in time to meet Graeme's team of doctors and their battery of questions.

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This is not the first post I wanted to write in 2013. I wanted to post pictures of our first Christmas as a family of five. I wanted to tell you about Dreamlites and Slane's A-Christmas-Story-esque quest for Santa to bring her one. (Spoiler alert: he did.) But here I am again—a downtown Des Moines hospital room with one of my loved ones hooked up to a myriad of machines that go "ping.”

It's so disheartening to see my child, eleven weeks old, struggle for each breath, unable to muster a cough that will clear the mucus in his lungs. Even with the breathing treatments, the air does not come easily. I wish I could do more that sit with him in sackcloth and ashes, holding the pacifier in his mouth as each breath sounds like the last sip of a milkshake. It feels unfair to both of us.

blood is thicker

I had my 6 week post partum check up this week.  All is well.  I am healing well, cleared for exercise, and good to go.  We talked a bit about my blood.  Back in the spring, Dr. T called me to tell me that I had a blood antibody that could affect baby.  It is a rare antibody, called the JKA antibody, and then told me to google it.  There isn't a lot of information out there on this specific antibody, but what I did find was from others who had it, primarily who had posted on baby and parenting forums.  This antibody, if it becomes quantifiable, can basically cross the placenta and attack baby's blood.  If that happens then the baby needs transfusions.

So every month I had to have blood tests to make sure the levels didn't get too high (they never did).  It also meant that any transfusions I got would need to be with blood with the antibody or the blood could be rejected.  The day before Graeme was born I had to have one more blood draw to type and cross check to make sure they had blood with the antibody.  They had two units ready to go.

Well, we all know that I need a few more units more than that, and they didn't have time to cross check that blood.  So I risked the chance of rejection of the blood, which I learned this week was a much higher possibility than anyone told us at the time.  Dr. T was in close contact with a doctor at the blood bank, as were all the doctors at Mercy.  Dr. T told me that it is yet another miracle that I didn't reject that blood.

A direct result of me receiving so much blood is that we have become avid fans of blood donation. Dan already was a donor, and his dad also donates regularly.  There has been talk of having a drive in my honor, which thrills me.  I even wrote a note to the trooper who brought more blood to the hospital when they ran out (turns out his wife works with Dan).

So, once again I have many other people to thank for keeping me alive.  Thanks for your prayers, and, if you donate blood, thank you.  You save lives.  If you don't donate, but are able, go donate a pint for me.

God was with you

After spending a significant amount of time (for a post-op) for our visit, talking us through the events of October 16, in the end, my OB said this: God was with you.  Through all of the bleeding that would not stop, through all of the methods attempted to make it stop, through all of the deliveries of more blood by the state's finest police, through all of the prayers of strangers, family, and friends, through all of the people who worked on me, God had a reason to keep me alive.  I don't know what that reason is yet, with exception to three kids who need their mommy, and a husband who needs his wife.  I feel I have a deep responsibility to pray prayers for others who may be in dire situations, because so many of you took a few minutes to think about me.  Thank you.  I also have a responsibility to live life to the fullest.

I did have a minor setback two weeks ago.  The antibiotics I was given in the hospital managed to kill off the good bacteria in my intestines, causing the bad bacteria to take over.  I became extremely ill and dehydrated.  When I called the ER, one of my surgeons was on-call and suggested I might have C. Diff, which I did, and fluids and a different antibiotic appear to have taken care of the problem.  It was a rough couple of days.  But overall I feel good.  I am getting out a bit each day, and am able to help with Slane and Hanna much more, which is good because Dan is back at work full-time.

Speaking of getting out, I have never felt so much a part of this community.  Almost everywhere I go, someone is glad to see me, and offers help, playdates, and general thanksgiving that I am walking among them.  I feel like a celebrity of sorts, but I take to heart that I (and we) are all cared for and loved by those around us.

I have one more thing I'd like to share.  I chose to have our babies in our small town because I love the staff in the maternity wing of the hospital.  They are dedicated and caring for everyone who walks through their doors.  They also took good care of my baby when I couldn't.  They kept a list of everyone who visited, they took pictures and saved them for me, and they sent pictures to Des Moines for me.  They didn't have to do that.  I know Graeme was cuddled and loved by the finest nurses and staff around.  And I have no idea who made it possible for Graeme to come and stay in Des Moines with me, but I will be forever thankful.  Holding him for the first time was maybe one of the most emotional moments I have experienced.       

How to give and receive

Intense, traumatic experiences pull stories and advice out of people. It's a mysterious force. While the advice and stories are still fresh, I thought I'd share the best of the advice we received with you.   (Names changed to protect the innocent.)

• Make a double batch. Marcy, our neighbor, shared that she will make a double batch of a meal - one for her family, another for the family who needs it.
• One word: therapy. Katherine, a friend who had an experience similar to ours. While she had sworn she would never go to therapy (she works as a social worker), the trauma she experienced caused her to reconsider her strict stance on therapy. Her husband also saw a therapist. The therapy gave each of them an opportunity to talk through and process the trauma that each had experienced.
• Be a yes man... Clayton, a friend who also had an experience like ours, recommended a month of live in help. At the very least, let people come and help and give them specific tasks. Keep it simple.
• ...but just say no to casserole. Jim, a former colleague, shared that his family continues to have a no casserole policy because his family received so many casseroles as meals following a death in the family. 

I would add this to the list: give your community an opportunity to help you through your trauma. The day that they transferred Sara out of ICU, I had a conversation with Alma, the mother of one of the Amish girls injured in an accident on the day of Graeme's birth. Eventually, it turned to the power of community to transcend the self and the tragedies we sometimes experience. Her community had helped her through many trials - births, injuries, and now through her daughter's accident. We agreed that community is a place where we both serve and are served, where we give and receive. Our experiences in ICU had taught each of us that it is much easier to give than to receive.

I chose to share our experience of Graeme's birth and Sara's challenges and recovery on Facebook, Twitter, and this blog because I could not keep all of the fear, anxiety, and uncertainty inside of me. I had to channel that energy into something useful. The response I received gave me comfort and strength, letting me know I was not alone. Every time I posted something new on Facebook, my phone chimed and buzzed dozens of times, like prayer candles flickering in church.

What have I learned from the past three weeks? Whenever someone is hurting, let that person know you care. No act is too small: whether it's cooking a meal, running a load of laundry, sending flowers, sending a text, or liking a Facebook post. We are not alone.

The surreal world of ICU

The Intensive Care Unit is a surreal space. Mercy hospital in Des Moines has done a wonderful job of making it a humane, compassionate space. Nevertheless, it is a space of grief, anxiety, and uncertainty. As I waited with Sara, I became aware of the strangers on the journey with me.

During Sara's stay the foyer was filled with Amish. Apparently, two girls had been injured in a freak accident between a buggy and a semi in southern Iowa. Women in plain dresses and men in beards huddled, waiting for news. A father and his son waited for news about his wife. A family reunion sprouted while waiting for news about a beloved patriarch. Many of us slept in our clothes in pullout couches and armchairs, looking disheveled, disoriented, and distraught. Despite the human touches - private, keypad-protected waiting rooms; a shower; linens; computers and wireless access - it felt a little too public.

Some of our journeys had happy endings. Like Sara, the Amish girls showed resilience and were transferred out of Intensive Care. The elder girl's arm was in a sling, but remained in good spirits. For others, the journey ended in ICU. The patriarch's 88-year-old heart stopped beating.

I give thanks to everyone who cared intensively for us during Sara's time in ICU and I pray for the strangers whose journeys have brought them to that place. May they find comfort and peace.

The surreal feeling of 5/4 time

5/4 - or any five-beat time signature - has an unevenness to it: 1-2-3 1-2. 1-2-3 1-2. We're finding our way with the five beats in our family. Eight days after Graeme's birth, our biggest concerns have shifted from "When will Sara leave ICU?" to "When will Sara's shoes fit?" (A trip to Brown's for clogs may be in our future.)

Her recovery thus far has been so swift, it boggles my mind almost to the point of questioning whether what we went through last Tuesday really happened. We still have a long road ahead as Sara's swelling dissipates, her incision heals, and she regains her stamina. Graeme's first checkup was a reminder that it did happen. His doctor and I spent equal time talking about Graeme and Sara. (Graeme is doing well, by the way.)

As Sara continues to recover, our attention to find our rhythm as a family of five. Our return and the departure of my parents has unsettled the girls. Hanna had never spent so much time away from us before and has been fussier and clingier than usual. Slane has regressed a little and her play has also changed, adopting new storylines from life events. Tonight, her Grover doll had to visit the doctor and used a breathing machine.

Support from family, friends, and neighbors continues to pour in. Meals, dishes, yardwork, cards, prayers. It's a little overwhelming. One of the lessons you have taught us is that it is much easier to give than to receive. We thank you for all that you have done for us during this difficult time.

Together again at home

After a week of surgeries, uncertainty, and recovery, we are all home. More reflections on the past week and being home together tomorrow.
Sent from a BlackBerry®

What Sara's road to recovery might look like

The past week has been a blur. It's hard to believe last Monday Graeme was still inside Sara and both of us were at work. Sara's medical team is so impressed with her progress, but we still have a long road to recovery. The gap between her darkest hours and normal health is large, but we're making giant steps.

What will Sara's road to recovery look like?

Sara is eating solid foods again and all of her bodily functions are functioning again. We were going to breastfeed, but after the trauma Sara experienced her milk has not come in. It may never come in. Her doctors say Sara may come home by Friday, but her nurses in the mother-baby unit at Mercy think it may be sooner. We're in no rush.

The support team has already sprung to action, bringing meals, doing yardwork, cleaning dishes, taking care of other needs around the house, and making other donations. It is so much easier to give than to receive. Your support and generosity overwhelms us. We look forward to paying it forward.

Bringing Graeme to Sara

Saturday morning I drove home to Grinnell to pick up Graeme and bring him to Sara. After saying hello to my dad and the girls, my brother and I drove to the hospital to get Graeme. Sara's anesthesiologist, Alex, happened to be in the OB unit. We hugged and cried. She was so glad to hear Sara was doing so well. I was so thankful she did so much to save Sara's life.

After many thank yous and goodbyes to the OB nurses in Grinnell and a car seat check, Uncle Chris drove Graeme and me to Des Moines. When we presented Graeme, Sara beamed.

The first night away from Grinnell Regional was a little rough, just as it was with our two girls, but we found our rhythm yesterday. We can't wait to be a family of five, home together.