There is no comparison…

When my son stopped breathing and had to be rescued, and yet, once again, was left without any help…I sat next to him.  I had already spent all evening, from 9pm until 5am, shaking him every 10 seconds so that he would be reminded to breathe.  And, yes, I was in the hospital.

But then it happened.  He stopped.  Completely.  He had no more breath left in him.

And I had to run into the halls screaming, while his alarms were going off, because no one was coming.  I had to run into the halls and yell, “My son!  My son!  He is not breathing.”

Finally two nurses came and got him breathing again.  They did not call a doctor.  They never did.  They got him breathing and then left me alone, again, with my son.

And I saw his light begin to disappear.  He had already been fighting for three days.  And for three days, very minimal was done to keep him alive.  When we told the doctor the night before he wasn’t breathing, she looked at him, shook him, and said, “Oh, it’s sleep apnea.  It’s common in infants.”

And she left again.  For the entire night.  From 9pm until the moment I ran into the hall screaming, not a single medical professional came to check on my premature, listless, graying baby, who also hadn’t eaten in 3 days.

No one.

And so I knew.  I knew as I sat next to him that he had very little time left here on earth.  I called my husband to see if we could Air Vac him out of Poland, but they said that the medical doctors would have to declare that they were unable to care for him.  If you have ever met a Pole, there is no way one will declare that they are unable to do anything.  At all.  They are a country of great pride.  In many, many, many areas, they should be.  But not in the care of my son.

Then we debated going to the US Embassy in Warsaw and demanding help.  But that would take 3 hours one way.  And he didn’t have 3 hours left.

We were tired, dejected, and left without anyone fighting on our side.

I sat.  I sat next to my son and I watched as he began to slip away.  And I could only cry.  And cry.  And cry.

My mom and dad had gotten to meet him.  But the rest of our families had not.  And I knew now that they would not.

My heart was broken.  My sister called this baby, Maxwell, her baby-and she had never met him.  But she prayed for him from the moment of our announcement, she ran a Triathlon for him, she wept for him.  She was his biggest champion.  She loved him.  And yet she never had the chance to meet him.

And I knew that day.  I just knew she never would.

So not only did my heart break for my son that was lying next to me with mere moments left to fight for his life.  But my heart broke for the fact that my family would not get to meet our son.  Our beautiful and miraculous baby that we had to fight to even bring into the world.

And I did the only thing I had left in me to do.  I sat there touching my baby and weeping.

Then she entered.  A miracle.  An angel.  The new doctor on shift.  The nurses, they tried to explain away my baby, but she wouldn’t let them.  She didn’t even listen to them.  She took one look at Maxwell dying and said, “There is nothing I can do!”

An ambulance was called, and my son was escorted down 4 flights of stairs, into the waiting ambulance and brought to the nearest ICU.  I was kicked out and he was intubated.  He was put on 100% ventilation.  His body was put into a full coma.  And he was put on antibiotics to now fight the pneumonia that was also ravaging his body as well as congestive heart failure medicine, because the hole in his heart had doubled in size—the lack of oxygen caused his heart to work overtime, resulting in a heart that was also now at risk of failing.

He was given a blood transfusion.  And we were given the news.

It was bad.  There was no news if he would make it.  It was now a waiting game.  A waiting game for life.  A waiting game for death.

And my sister.  She again took charge.  An ocean away, and yet she was able to somehow help lead me through this time in my life.  We were only allowed to see our son from 11am-7pm.  Otherwise, we had to wait.  Every evening, we were allowed to call at 10pm and ask if there was a status change.  And every morning at 8am we were allowed to call and ask if he made it through the LONG hours of the night.  If he was still alive.

And my sister, God bless her soul, she would wait for our evening and morning calls, her phone bill, I am sure, ran into the 4 digits of expense, and we would give her the status update.  He was alive.  He was getting a blood transfusion.  His ventilator quit on him and they had to bag him for about 6-10 minutes.  He squeezed his daddy’s finger today, and so forth.

Every morning and every night she called so that she could share with the rest of the world if our baby was alive.  If there was progress.  If he was going to make it.  And, as she shared, the rest of the world prayed.

After all, she considered our baby her baby.

My sister…There is no comparison.

She is the woman I wish I was.  The woman that I would like to be.

Compassion never fails her.  Money never stops her.  And love never leaves her.  Even if an ocean separates her.

Today is her birthday, and I couldn’t wish a more deserving person 100 years, Sto Lat!  I couldn’t wish a more giving person a life of health, happiness, and love.  And I couldn’t ask God for a greater friend and supporter.

And so I’ll leave you with this…our son did fight with all that was within him. And he did conquer every demon that wanted to keep him from us here on earth.  And he did survive.

And because of it, he finally got to meet my sister.  His auntie.  And my best friend…

Happy birthday, Darby.

Once upon a muddy Sunday…and a hospital visit Tuesday

So I have lots of autumn and winter plans. In fact, tonight we are suppose to be serving food at a local soup kitchen. Tomorrow I am suppose to teach Art Masterpiece at my daughter’s school. Friday my husband leaves for Ivory Coast for our foundation. Saturday my niece has an honor’s choir concert—and I have an awesome girls’ night out where we’re…me and some of my besties…are going to paint the town red! Well, literally we’re going to paint a cardinal, but it sounds like fun, huh?! But sometimes life has different plans…like belly monitors and bum shots and potential premature babies (and, if you’re counting, this would be number 2—but let’s see how long I can keep her baking).

All in all, my babies will always trump any plans-because they are the greatest plans of all!

Have a Super Tuesday.

“The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer…with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”
Philippians 4:5-7

Life. It’s one big contraction.

So, I was in the Polish hospital a little over a year ago.  I was 29 weeks pregnant with my son, lying in the hospital with the contraction monitor on my belly for hours at a time, eventually receiving a raging, itchy rash from that contraption.

And sure enough that annoying machine was jumping up and down like crazy.  I was having contractions, so I was given something to stop those suckers.

Yes.  Contractions.  I know them well.

Let’s continue with this contracting belly baby named Maxwell and how he loved to cause pain.

It’s still a little over a year ago and I actually made it from 29 weeks to 34 weeks.  Thirty-four painful weeks and my mom and I are watching my belly.

“Oh, look at Maxwell.  He’s so funny.”  And my belly would move and turn and slide and then stop.

Hmmm.  That’s weird.  Oh, wait.  There he goes again.

Well, this became a pattern.  Now, please keep in mind that I do have a 6-year-old daughter, but 6 years is a LONG time to forget about contractions.  Apparently so is 5 weeks, because I didn’t even remember from my 29^th week of pregnancy.

Needless to say, I wind up in the hospital just halfway through my 34^th week and the doctors decide that it’s time for my bum moon to shine, in a room full of 6 other preggo women, and that’s where they give me a shot—on my bum moon.

Let me also say, the shot hurt.  Did I mention that I was in a hospital room, on a bed, in a gown and there were 6 other very afraid pregnant ladies there with me?!  Yep.

Full moon…Full shot…Full pain…Full hollering.

The nurse looked and me and said, “Oh, now.  That wasn’t bad.”

And I replied, “Nie, straszny!  Straszny!”  Basically, “No!  It was horrible!  Horrible!”

She just chuckled, as I once again hid my big ol’ bum moon, while she left.

The contractions, however, were not impeded by the shot from Hades, and so I delivered my baby just a half a day later.

Well.  If I thought the contractions were bad at 7 minutes apart, I was in for a really big surprise later during the day.

At first, after my water broke, I told my husband who was watching the monitor, “Hey!  Let me know if a big one is coming.”

Utterly foolish.

Because he then became the sportscaster of Team Contractions and would holler out each time he saw it rise, “A big one is coming!”

“I KNOW a big one is coming!”  I would holler back!  “Don’t you think I can FEEL it?!”

The air was tense…he thought his job was fun.  And I was at the point where I thought I was going to DIE.  Literally.  Die.  And here is my husband in no pain watching a monitor yelling, “A big one is coming!”

Needless to say, he was quickly FIRED from that job.  I put him to work getting me ice, getting me a cool head cloth, hand feeding me the ice, getting me the puke bucket, finding me pain drugs, and so forth.

In hindsight—he was an angel.

And eventually the contractions led to the game winning push!  Twelve to be exact.  Twelve devilishly painful pushes that popped us out a baby!

A baby…

And quickly all contractions were forgotten.

And then the world seemed right.  And peaceful.  And perfect.

Those contractions, they gave us a gift.  And that gift is our son.

Life is sometimes like those contractions.  Big and painful.   Often we wonder if we are going to make it through moments in our day or moments in our lives. 

And contraction after contraction is upon us.  Seemingly endless.  And there are people all around shouting—“It’s a big one!”

Exhaustion sets in.  There is no doubt in your mind that this is the most painful experience of your life.  And you are ready to quit.

To throw in the towel.  Kaput with it.  No more.

And then the worst of it comes upon you.  And you unbelievably know that you will.not.survive.

But you do.

And, in the wake of all that was painful, you are given something precious.

It’s called life.

A chance to begin again.

Like a newborn.  Except with experience.

A new day rises before you and you know that you can conquer it because you just survived the most painful experience of your life.

Contractions.  Big ones.  Labor.  Labor that was accompanied by pain.  Lots of it.

But you made it through.  And now.  Now it’s your turn.

Cradle your new beginnings and go to sleep, looking forward to a new tomorrow.  You deserve it.

You may be the only Bible some will ever read…

Today, my mom and dad, Maxwell, and I went to a little church in the mountains of Pinetop, Arizona.  And the guest preacher was an 18-year-old kid fresh in college.

And, boy howdy, was he a HOOT!

First of all…He was 18.  It looked as if I could be his mother!

Second of all…he was so funny.  But maybe not always on purpose 🙂

Lastly…although his sermon was as fresh as he himself was, it was awesome and from the heart.

I’d like to share a bit what I learned from this young chap today:

His sermon was on optimism and pessimism.  And his reminder was that we may be the only Bible that some may ever read.

So he asked us, the congregation hanging on to every word from this adorable boy…

How do you react when in a situation that is unfair or unjust?

How do you react when you are mistreated or disrespected?

How do you react when things do not go your way?

How do you react when life serves you tragedy and not always triumph?

And it does give you a lot to think about.  Truly.

How do I react to situations in my life that were not of my choosing or not in my control or not pleasing to me?

Because, after all, I may be the only Bible some will ever read.

The next thing he stated really painted a visual picture that shows unfathomable pain…

A friend of his was in a tragic plane accident that killed his father (his friend’s father).  And his friend, himself, was burned over 40% of his body.  He had to go through months of excruciating and painful healing and skin grafting.

And his friend shared this with him…

You have to remove the old skin in order to not receive infections and to heal.  You also need this removal so that they can graft skin from other parts of your body to replace the old skin with new.

BUT…you have to use a hard wire brush and have the old skin scrubbed off of you.  You have to be scrubbed.  Raw.  In order to have a chance to heal.

This made me think…it’s so true in life.  Often, we have to be scrubbed raw to rid ourselves of what it is that is keeping us from being healthy.  We have to be scrubbed raw, sometimes, in order to be brought to restoration and healing.

And it’s not pretty.

And it’s not pain free.

But it’s necessary.

And only when the dead and infectious skin is gone.  Only then can we be given new skin.  Only then can we begin to heal.

Perhaps this is why sometimes people don’t heal.  Because it’s a wire brush.  It’s a scrubbing.  It bares their very soul raw.  And it hurts.

Perhaps this is why many cover what is infectious with ways to mask their pain?

But, he went on to share, when his friend went through all of his unfathomable pain and re-grafting of skin…only then was his friend able to heal.  And only then was his friend able to leave the hospital.  And only then was his friend able to live, once again.

You know…Today’s message was brought about by a kid with dirt still behind his ears.  But what he shared was from his heart—and it went straight into the hearts of all those of us listening.

I hope it resonates in yours, too.

Let me end with this…

As he was praying at the end, he said, “Dear Lord, Thank you for helping me not pass out today!”

And we, the audience, lost it!  Good thing his sermon and church were over.

We were left with a lot to think about…and a good laugh to leave.

Friends, you’re never too young to let God use you in great ways.

And you’re never too DEAD to allow him to help you be scrubbed raw…and healed.

And don’t forget…You actually may be the only Bible some will ever read!