The Silver Lining

I last wrote about how the miracle that is my son had been finally dawning on me. I thought about that one a lot and I think I've come to an important truth: this is the only here and now we get. That could mean a lot of things to you depending on your story and where you're at in that story, but it's a blessing for me right now.

Elias, in the beginning of his journey, when life was at it's highest and lowest for me while I struggled to celebrate the birth of my son and mourn the loss of the healthy baby I thought I was giving birth to, was already a miracle. With every low, there was a high: "he has some birth defects, but we can work on them." "He's having surgery, but it's not nearly as extensive as we thought...we'll be done in 30 minutes." "He's not recovering properly, but we can equip you and send you home to care for him." And then as the "lows" became just regular life, suddenly there was healing and the "highs" started out-numbering the "lows": "you're right, he's urinating on his own now, you can stop catheterizing him." "He has healed perfectly and there shouldn't be further issues." And then we were only returning to the Children's Hospital once a year for check-ups and we stopped feeling like they should have given us a punch-card like the corner coffee shop does: with every nine visits, get the tenth for free (oh, if only!).

He was a miracle then. God was healing him and working in him then, and while I saw it, it was like watching a Christmas celebration from outside in the cold. The party is there; it's warm and inviting and worth smiling about, but you can't quite reach it. The pain of watching my baby hurt was still too raw and unexpected to celebrate the little victories. I missed them. Ten of them still weighed less than the one big elephant in my heart labeled UNJUST, UNHEALTHY, BETRAYAL, UNCERTAINTY...I couldn't see past that elephant most of the time. Some have elephants that are heavier, bigger, that last longer or hurt deeper. I listened to parents cry in the NICU a bed over from my son's who were not getting good news. Parents who had to hear that their baby would never fully recover. I remember that mother's face, her posture, her tears. I won't forget her. My heart hurt with her then and I still think about her now, but even in that journey I pray that as her "lows": the challenges that come with her son, become just another sound in the rhythm of what life looks like for them, that she'd rest in the little victories too. Let's make it clear: I don't pretend to believe that we all find the miracles we seek in this life. Part of this emotional journey for me these past weeks has been the overwhelming understanding that I have been, my son has been, one of the privileged.

As the cliche goes, everything is clearer in hindsight. On this side of the hurt I can say that I find myself searching desperately for the silver lining in my here-and-nows. For my sake, for my family's sake, for the sake of those still seeking their miracles. I'm trying to live in the ups, the highs, the joys as much as I can. I don't succeed every day. The days, the seasons, when the downs are easier to see than the ups can still be hard, but I think the ups are easier to find when you're looking--especially because in some stages of life, they're great at playing hard-to-get. So keep looking.

My Miracle

A woman in my life whom I truly admire recently wrote on her blog, Chasing My Miracle (thank you, Jen, from the bottom of my heart, for sharing) a little bit about her journey with her daughter. A medical journey that was longer and more severe than my Elias' but her words and memories she shared of places we frequented and feelings I felt then, in the middle of the journey, and now in the light of the reason I too, can call my Elias my miracle were stirring for me. She captured in words what I have been resting and rejoicing in during this very week. This week, as my son who was born without the ability to expel waste from his tiny body, who underwent surgeries and subsequent tests on his G.I. tract, kidneys, bladder, anus...the necessary list of medical violations and impositions goes on...this week, my son began potty training like a regular toddler. He's young and we're trying it out, not expecting success overnight, but he's physically able to do it. We were told he might not. That statement sums his journey up wonderfully. They said he might not, but he does.

As Jen relates in her blog, I so often forget about where we started because he's perfect now. I have the luxury of forgetting! I was so struck with her words because they have been my internal dialogue this past week, and every time Elias pees on the bathroom rug or points to his Pull-Up and says "Uh-oh!" after an accident I swallow tears of joy. Thank you, God, that we made it here. Thank you for my miracle.

TODAY

NICU: Doernbecher Children's Hospital, May 2009

Recovering from surgery

The NICU and beyond...

He's finally here! It's been a while and most of you know, our little Elias Reid was born right on his due date on May 24 after precisely 24 hours of labor (it seems he was content to ride along with Mommy for a while longer...I disagreed). Yes, his coming was an incredibly joyous thing, and yes, there were complications. Sparing pages of details, he had some problems with his G.I. system that required immediate surgery. Surgery that the local hospital I gave birth in was not equipped to do. So, after an hour-long ride in an ambulance, Elias and I arrived at Doernbecher Children's Hospital in Portland, OR with Daddy following with all our things that I don't even remember throwing into the van.

Elias went straight into surgery and frankly the surgeons were not optimistic about the severity of his issues. We were given two potential prognoses: either the problem will be in his upper bowel (98% likely and causing a need for a colostomy bag and several subsequent surgeries throughout Eli's life) or lower down, closer to the anus (an easier surgery that would require no additional treatment, but a rare problem that they simply never see without an additional upper bowel problem. A 2% chance that this would be all).

We signed a release form for the latter: upper bowel surgery and placement of a colostomy bag.

We walked (well, Logan walked. I hadn't recovered enough from labor/delivery to be so lucky, so I was wheeled) with Elias to what the surgical staff refer to as "the kissing corner," where they told me to say goodbye to my son, not 36 hours after I had first said hello to him.

"Goodbye?" It was at this point that my world fell apart and there was nothing left to do but cry for our son and pray desperate prayers that I never thought would have to come out of my mouth.

Until the surgical team emerged from the O.R. to say that Eli was a member of that 2% of babies who would need only this surgery. The problem, it turned out, was much less complicated than they had originally thought. They literally crossed out the surgery we had signed for on the release form and had us re-sign. 30 minutes later, we were saying "hello" again.

I guess I tell this story for the sake of what Logan and I know God has done for our son. Because we have a God who can do wonders with 2% chances and because I would be cheating the miracle to claim it was anything but that: a miracle; a resounding "yes, granted" to some new parents' prayers. I do

n't think of it lightly because there is no part of me that forgets that some parents get a "no, not this time" answer to the same types of prayers. I don't pretend to understand why that is, nor am I so arrogant as to question something so much bigger than myself--I only say "thank you."

We're not out of the woods yet. And I say "yet" very intentionally. Elias and his mom and dad are still forced to make very good friends with doctors in a couple of cities now, but he's on the up-swing. We're all learning and adapting--there's just a little more of a learning curve for us than with usual new parents. That aside, we are in awe of the new little life in our home and the joy that he brings us every day.

The following are a few pictures from his time in recovery in the NICU and since being home. Oh, how good it feels to have him home!

To those of you who have helped us walk this journey, we can never thank you enough. You can never know how helpful it is to have dinner appear at your door when you've been so overwhelmed you haven't even realized that the day has come and gone already without a thought to food. You'll never know how thankful we are that we've yet to have to buy diapers, that our fridge was never empty de

spite our inability to go grocery shopping, and we have nev

er been in doubt that Eli is lifted up in prayer every single day. Thank you that we have never felt alone on this very bumpy road.

Now, take a look at our beautiful boy!