Filed under: Storms
I miss you, Grandpa.
Hallam Robert L. Age 90, a longtime resident of Northville, passed away peacefully May 19, 2012. Beloved husband of the late Anita. Cherished father of Robert Thomas (Linda) Hallam and Judi (Ed) Carter. Adored grandfather of five and dearest great- grandfather of four. God blessed this earth when He gave us Bob. He taught his family how to work earnestly, to love genuinely, to laugh frequently and to curse discreetly! Heaven is brimming with joy as the angels reunite Bob with Anita, the love of his life; what a glorious day! Bob and Anita are deeply missed but will be forever remembered for creating a legacy of true marital honor, commitment and love! Memorial contributions would be appreciated to the American Cancer Society, 20450 Civic Center Dr., Southfield, MI 48076.
Filed under: Storms
I was smitten with this man since day one. Thank you, Jesus, for the promise that I’ll be smitten for eternity.
Today is a beautiful day in heaven as one of my most favorite men in the world was reunited with his wife. Grandma, he has missed you so much. I’m so glad that you can dance once again; that you can squeeze hands and LAUGH once again. Gosh I miss that laugh. Grandma, when we lost you, we lost a little piece of Grandpa too. His laugh was one of those things that became scarce when you left. All he wanted was to be with you; what a great day this is for him!
Grandpa, when I talked to you on your birthday a few days ago, I promised that the girls and I would see you soon. I am so grateful to God for this truth. I love you and miss you more than my heart can bear. BUT, thank God, I WILL see you soon. Give me some time to see my children grow, and their children grow; to teach them about you and all that you were to me. Watch over me until I’ve lived a full life; a life that makes you proud and that makes our Father proud. And, then, Grandpa … then I’ll meet you at the gates.
(Poppy, grab a helmet – Great Grandpa isn’t so great at the whole teaching-a-kid-to-ride-a-bike thing!)
Filed under: Storms
On Saturday, as you may recall from my post, I knew that my grandma was sick. I was anxious, scared, sad and so many other emotions that don’t even have words assigned to them. I felt uneasy, restless. And so I kept myself busy by cleaning, writing, playing.
Our mailbox on Saturday was an interesting sight. It was empty, except one small magazine. A magazine that my grandma had subscribed me to a year or more ago. I hadn’t seen an issue in months. But, Saturday, it was there. “Angels on Earth” it’s called. When I saw the magazine laying there, I felt a strange tingling in my heart.
On Sunday, Jimmy and I sat in the back row of church with Aubri in our arms, laughing at the pastor’s talk about Disney movies. That’s all I remember. I wish I could say it was an insightful sermon that offered advice on what was to come. But I can’t. Because it’s a blur.
My phone rang. I grabbed it from Jimmy, ran for the exit and answered. It was the call that I had subconsciously expected but consciously dreaded.
“Bad news,” said Dad. “Grandma is not getting better.”
“OK, I’m going to look for a ticket right now to get on a plane,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks as I knelt in the church atrium near a large wall of windows, staring into the parking lot. A little girl toddled towards me with a smile, I wiped the tears from my eyes and ran back into the church. Jimmy looked over his shoulder at me as I approached, I shook my head, my chin trembled.
“We have to go,” I said.
Jimmy grabbed Taylor from her classroom, we rushed home, I booked a flight while Jimmy and Taylor threw clothes into a suitcase for me and Aubri.
We took off for the airport, me with a pounding heart and a nervous stomach. I didn’t know much about Grandma’s current condition, but I had an urgency to get there. And get there fast. I was so scared that I wouldn’t make it in time to say “goodbye”. If it was even at that point, I didn’t know. But I wanted to get to her side. Quickly.
Aubri and I flew to Detroit and were among the last flights allowed in due to a near-blizzard that had just struck the city. I rushed through the airport, frantically looking for my Uncle Jim at arrivals and pick-ups. The snow was blinding. People were rushing through the terminals and out the doors, frustrated that their flights had been canceled. I have never seen such white-out conditions. There is no logical explanation as to how my flight made it to Detroit. The flight before mine and after mine was canceled. Mine made it.
I found Uncle Jim, we loaded into his van and headed to the hospital. It was the longest drive of my life.
We left my house at noon and I arrived by Grandma’s side at 9pm.
I walked into her hospital room, Aubri in my arms. Grandma perked up, looked at Aubri and flashed a huge grin visible through her oxygen mask. Her eyes lit up like stars and her cheeks immediately flushed with color. She didn’t take her eyes off of Aubri for what seemed like hours. She couldn’t keep her hands off of Aubri’s feet, tickling her toes non-stop. And when Aubri pulled her feet away, Grandma just held onto her sweet chubby calves.
I found out later that Grandma asked her caretaker to “fix her hair” before Aubri got there. She always wanted to look her best for people. Particularly her hair. Precious.
At one point that evening in between napping, rubbing Aubri’s feet, and holding Grandpa’s hand, Grandma looked to me. She lowered her mask, lifted her head, looked into my eyes and mouthed “I love you.” She replaced her mask, laid her head back down and went back to sleep.
We sat by her side that night until about 10:30. Rubbing my grandpa’s arms, hugging on my mom and kissing my grandma’s forehead. As we were leaving, Grandma waved for me to come near. She wanted a kiss from Aubri. We leaned Aubri close to Grandma and they kissed, Aubri’s pursed lips to Grandma’s oxygen mask. I then led Aubri’s lips to Grandma’s forehead for several extra smooches.
We went back to the hotel room, which was connected to the hospital so our “commute” was short. Mom and I sat up for more than an hour just talking. About what was happening, what could happen, and how we were handling all of this emotionally. We went to “sleep” but neither of us rested at all.
We “woke up” (i.e. stopped pretending to sleep) at 6am and headed to see Grandma shortly after that.
I walked in Grandma’s room, greeted her with kisses and hand holding, then sat in a short spinning stool intended for the doctors. We sat there for hours. Deep in thought, repeating prayers, rubbing backs, crying, talking, reminiscing, talking about God’s promise for eternity, hoping for miracles while also understanding the inevitable.
At noon, there was a noticeable difference in Grandma. And in me. My eyes were glued to her chest, watching it rise and fall. Watching her face, her lips, her eyes. I don’t know why I felt compelled to keep such a close eye on her, but I did. Deep in thought, everything in the room except for Grandma was a blur from noon until 3:50pm. That’s when I watched my sweet grandma’s chest rise for the last time.
There are no words to express the gut-wrenching emotion that I endured this week as I watched my grandma pass and my grandpa’s heart break. As much as me and my grandpa talk about eternity, Grandma’s new beautiful angel wings and the blessing in living a pain-free life with our Savior, it still hurts. It hurts not to see her earthly face and run my fingers through her sweet white hair. But, when I find myself missing these earthly abilities, I force myself to focus on Grandma’s new life instead. To give hope to Grandpa that his mourning of loss will soon turn to celebration of life. That his tears of sorrow will soon turn to smiles from precious memories.
Grandma, I love you. I miss you. I celebrate your new beautiful wings that Jesus himself placed upon your back in a ceremony so amazing that I can only dream about. Your new health, your perfect hearing. Your ability to smile as you watch down over your husband, children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. I long for Grandpa to hold you once again, to dance with you forever. But not just yet, OK? As you know, God has him on this earth still for a reason. Please remind Grandpa that you want him to take care of himself. For you. For Jesus. For God’s perfect plan.
Grandpa, I love you. My heart breaks for yours. I cherish you and am not ready for you to leave. Please take care of yourself for me, for Grandma. For the great grandkids that, thank God, Grandma got to meet. Please rest in knowing that you have a beautiful guardian angel in Grandma. An angel that wants you to complete this beautiful story that God wrote for you, our family, our world. Live longer, stronger, with smiles and laughter.
God, please hug Grandma for me. Please be sure that her dancing shoes are nothing short of exquisite, her dancing dress fit for a princess. Please mend my grandpa’s heart, help him to celebrate Grandma’s new life with you, to rejoice in the memories that they created here on earth. Heal him from cancer. Give him new health, and renewed hope. God, I praise you for miraculously delivering me and Aubri to Grandma’s bedside before she joined you in Heaven, that she got to meet Aubri and give her kisses. I thank you for the last “I love you” that I received, but more importantly, the 31 years of memories that I have with her spunky self. I praise you for the special moments that I shared with Grandpa and my mom before and after Grandma’s passing. Comforting, praying and weeping. More than anything, Lord, I thank you for what you did in me during this week. You showed me love. You showed me love in the midst of life’s most tender moment. Intense, sincere, selfless love. Although I have witnessed Grandma and Grandpa’s love for one another over my 31 years of life, there’s something about the 19 hours that I spent with them this week that will change me forever. I will love differently, live differently. In ways that I can’t put into words just yet. Something amazing happened in me after witnessing love during its last earthly hours. Although it sounds strange to say, I thank you God for this experience. For the tears, the hugs, the kisses, the prayers, the perspective, the hope. And I thank you God for my grandma’s new shimmering wings, and sparkling slippers (you know Grandma loves her some shoes) that she will surely use to dance all over Heaven’s floor.
Grandpa, I pray that you heal. I pray that you feel Grandma’s spirit within your heart, and that you see her legacy in your great-granddaughters’ eyes. I love you Grandpa.
My grandma is very sick. She’s in the hospital, grandpa by her side. Mom by her side.
I’m scared. I’m sad. And my heart aches for my sweet grandparents.
I can’t cry anymore.
And so, as I wait for updates or a call to get on a plane, I have kept my mind busy.
I have washed and folded five loads of laundry.
Folded all piles of week-old laundry that have been consuming floor space.
Attempted to teach Aubri that tummy time is fun.
Fed my child a well-balanced meal for the first time in who knows how long.
Tried to keep Taylor from scaring her sister too badly.
Painted my fingernails.
Asked Taylor to stop standing on the counter numerous times despite her sweet attempt to “paint the kitchen” with a Play-Doh roller.
Photographed the nursery like I have been meaning to do for six months.
Vacuumed a house that didn’t need to be vacuumed.
Shop-vac’d all outdoor living areas.
Photographed kisses.
Purged Aubri’s closet of all too-small clothing.
Worked a bit.
Tended to more hair-pulling drama.
Fed my baby three times and changed six diapers.
Read Facebook 900 times.
Stared into these baby blues.
Written this blog post.
And in between all attempts at distraction, I still:
Looked for flights to Michigan.
Cried for my grandma.
Cried for my grandpa.
Cried for my mom.
Prayed to God that He would provide peace and comfort to my family.
Realized that I should be putting down the laundry and picking up the Bible.
But I’m human. And I didn’t stop long enough to think about that.
Until now.
Taylor cracks me up. Her spunky silliness continues to make me giggle, and offers respite from the stresses of selling our house, the financial fears of our dwindling income, the painful emotions of wanting/trying for another baby, and the quivering from the artic blast that we’re unfortunately experiencing. She helps me to see the sunshine through the storm. And for that light, I thank God. Because I know that He placed this sweet and silly girl in my life to show me His mercy. His grace. His goodness, and His love. I am so grateful for my 3-foot, blonde blessing because, some days, I just don’t know how I’d smile without her.
Two recent examples:
In the car the other day, I asked Taylor to stop acting like a baby (the tantrums and whining were driving me bazerk). Her response was a long-winded, one-way conversation (very typical for this super chatty child). “I don’t want to be a baby because when I am a baby I am soooooooo tiny and when I am tiny someone will step on me and then there will be no more Taylor.”
Such intelligence shining through her developing noggin.
Second, we all know that Taylor is a toddler-by-day. But a super hero by night. Lately, she has been fine-tuning her flying skills. I don’t know if I captured the sheer hilariousness on camera. But the way she quickly propels her body with such ease makes my belly hurt in laughter. And, yes, this stylin’ super hero is wearing a pink tutu over her Tinkerbell PJs.
I love my silly, Super T. The world just wouldn’t be quite as sunny (or safe) without her.
“When your faith endures many conflicts and your spirit sinks low, do not condemn yourself. There is a reason for your season of heaviness. Great soldiers are not made without war. Skillful sailors are not trained on the shore. It appears that if you are to become a great believer you will be greatly tested. If you are to be a great helper to others, you must pass through their trials. The uncut diamond has little brilliance, the unthreshed corn feeds no one, and the untried believer is of little use or beauty. There are great benefits to come from your trials and depression.
From all your afflictions His glory shall spring,
And the deeper your sorrows the louder you’ll sing.”
— Charles Spurgeon
I just started running a few times each week, in addition to my stroller walking/talking time with Taylor, my girlfriends and their babies. So, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, while Taylor is at school, I head to the park and just have Hilary time. I was especially excited about my run today because I had just found my old iPod (yes, as in the 1st iPod ever released — I nearly needed a backpack to carry the cumbersome thing. At least I felt confident that no one would mug me for that hunk of metal). In any case, I had loaded the iPod with a bunch of Christian songs that I have accumulated over the past two years — the most upbeat ones to, you know, give me energy and some pep to my step.
That hour today was awesome. I discovered that these running days will offer a great opportunity for quiet time, which is rare for me because this will actually be, you know, quiet. I rocked and ran to some awesome, uplifting, enlightening music. The best of Matt Blair, Third Day, Mercy Me, and my other favorites. I sang, I thought, and I talked. And, around mile 4, I felt renewed, inspired, blessed, and just…at peace. A new peace. My “problems” had been put into perspective. Basically, a bunch of feelings that have been on my heart for the past few days finally clicked. It’s as if these thoughts just needed a little bit of quiet to finally make sense and sink in. And it felt SO good. The 60 degree weather. The running. The sweat. The time with just myself and God.
As I approached the end of my run, I thought back to how cool it was — it seemed that every time I needed a little extra energy for that upcoming hill or long winding stretch ahead, an extra special song would come on. I’d say “OK, God, I can barely breathe, help me out here.” Then, BOOM, Matt Blair would start rocking. My panting would ease. And I’d smile.
Did I say it was awesome? It was.
And then, after 5 miles of therapeutic conversations and revealing thoughts, I began my cool-down lap. And, right at that very moment, this song came on. This song that I have NEVER heard before, yet ended up on my iPod…
Glory baby you slipped away as fast as we could say baby…baby…
You were growing, what happened dear?
You disappeared on us baby…baby…
Heaven will hold you before we do
Heaven will keep you safe until we’re home with you…
Until we’re home with you…
Miss you everyday
Miss you in every way
But we know there’s a day when we will hold you
We will hold you
You’ll kiss our tears away
When we’re home to stay
Can’t wait for the day when we will see you
We will see you
But baby let sweet Jesus hold you
‘till mom and dad can hold you…
You’ll just have heaven before we do
You’ll just have heaven before we do
Sweet little babies, it’s hard to understand it ‘cause we’re hurting
We are hurting
But there is healing
And we know we’re stronger people through the growing
And in knowing-
That all things work together for our good
And God works His purposes just like He said He would…
Just like He said He would…
Miss you everyday
Miss you in every way
But we know there’s a day when we will hold you
We will hold you
You’ll kiss our tears away
When we’re home to stay
Can’t wait for the day when we will see you
We will see you
But baby let sweet Jesus hold you
‘till mom and dad can hold you…
You’ll just have heaven before we do
You’ll just have heaven before we do
I can’t imagine heaven’s lullabies and what they must sound like
But I will rest in knowing, heaven is your home
And it’s all you’ll ever know…all you’ll ever know…
Miss you everyday
Miss you in every way
But we know there’s a day when we will hold you
We will hold you
You’ll kiss our tears away
When we’re home to stay
Can’t wait for the day when we will see you
We will see you
But baby let sweet Jesus hold you
‘till mom and dad can hold you…
You’ll just have heaven before we do
You’ll just have heaven before we do
I’ve been thinking a ton about the timing of the song. What was God trying to say? I had just recovered from all feelings of sadness! I had just come to terms with everything…and felt darn good about it too. So, why turn the tables from smiles to tears? How did He want me to process that song? I don’t know how I should have taken those lyrics but, ya’ll, I don’t think I have cried that hard since the day we lost Poppy. I knew in my heart that they should be tears of joy — that our baby knows nothing but Heaven! He is hearing the most incredible lullabies as he is rocked to sleep by our sweet Jesus. How awesome! — but I can’t say that the tears were joyful. In fact, there was a lot of sadness in those tears.
Maybe that’s what it was. He wanted to show me that, amidst my “peace,” I’m not totally healed yet. I need to work out that sadness, and see it all as glory, happiness, and beauty. Maybe. God, is that it? Help. (Can you tell that I’m working out these thoughts as I go? So sorry about that. I wish I had clear direction on this. But, there’s not much that’s clear in my head these days. Following God is a complicated process. Amazingly rewarding and worthwhile, but complicated nonetheless.)
I don’t know yet how to read what happened today. But I do know that this is such a perfect example that grieving and loss is not an easy, or short, road. Just when you think you are doing great, WHAM, you realize that you have so much more to learn.
Something big happened today during that run/cool down. I just can’t wrap my mind around it yet. But the time that I had to just think was so necessary. Because I realized and accepted how happy I am with or without another baby. Maybe that’s the feeling He has wanted for me for so long. And only then did He want to whisper Poppy’s name. To nudge me down that path of further healing. Which He did, and so kindly through that song — by reminding me of the sweetness that Poppy got to experience that day. And still experiences today.
But there were still tears. And it is only Him that can guide me down this path of healing. To help me change the emotions behind those tears.
Shew, ya’ll, He is working on me. He’s doing something big in my heart. And whatever it is, I am grateful. Because, after our “talk” today, I can sleep tonight in peace. At peace with my new perspective on our “troubles.” In thought about where I am going next. What is in store for my heart. And also with the image in my mind of sweet Jesus holding Poppy, until that day when we can too. Our little guy will kiss our tears away. When we’re home to stay.
Just a quick update from loopy land. The rollercoaster is in full effect but, for the most part, it’s been an OK ride. No major loops or extended time hanging upside down. I was strong, peaceful, and good all afternoon Wednesday and all day yesterday. Could be because we have been blessed with scrumptious, huge meals for the past three nights. I’m talking twice-baked potatoes and chicken potpie here, people. Comfort food prepared by fantastic chefs, also known as our friends. It’s been so nice to not have to slave over a stove for hours, and still have a beautiful, delicious meal. (As if I am even capable of slaving over a stove without burning the house to the ground, but I digress.) So, the meals and the constant support from friends have been amazing. And I have been doing great, mentally…until last night. I had my first little dip. A short crying episode of the “it’s not fairs”, but it was so very clear to me that my sadness and frustration was only a result of being exhausted. I knew that, as soon as I let my guard down, Satan would have a field day. And, that he did. Thankfully, I was rescued by my sleepiness and I awoke this morning feeling strong and in process of being healed by God, once again.
Physically, well, that’s a different loopy story. When all of the anesthesia and pain medicines wore off after surgery on Wednesday, it became clear very quickly that I needed something. So, I took one of the pills that they sent home with me. Note that I asked for something that would NOT make me loopy, since I had a horrible reaction to Vicoden when I was recovering from having Taylor, complete with short-term amnesia and hallucinations of spiders flooding the floor and tennis balls flying across the room. Not cool. So, I took a pill on Wednesday night, and it was not pretty, again. Thankfully, it wasn’t nearly as dramatic, but I still didn’t feel myself. I felt no pain, but I could barely see straight, let alone stand up. Not a fan of that. So, yesterday, I decided to grin and bear it, taking only Tylenol. Well, my body laughed at the effort and the pain marched right on. I’m still hurting a good bit now, but I know that the pain is sure to fade soon. So, physically, it’s been a challenge. But, I’ve survived, and there have been no sightings of flying spiders!
I am heading out now to attempt to attack the grocery store. Wish me luck on that. And, if you see a woman curled over the cart or hunched over in the bologna display, it’s just me. Don’t worry. Curling up helps to manage the pain.
We’ve got some fun things planned this weekend, since the forecast says that we’ll be enjoying 80-degree weather. We’re going to make our first trip to the pool tomorrow with some friends, and then head to another friend’s house for some relaxing time in their waterfront backyard. I’m looking forward to soaking up some sun, time with friends, and hoping that this pain is washed away by the water and the fun. Have a great weekend ya’ll. I’ll have new pictures on Monday. We need some color and happiness to break up the past couple posts of wordy rollercoaster reports!
Last night went better than I thought. I didn’t shed a (full) tear when dropping off Taylor. Maybe a few mini tears, and I only asked for nine hugs and kisses and looked over my shoulder 16 times as we left the backyard, but I held it together quite wonderfully, if I may say so myself. I knew that she’d have a blast blowing bubbles, swinging, sliding, and playing with her cousins, staying up late and being loved on by her Aunt Robin (who was nearly tackled to the ground with hugs when we arrived). Taylor was in more than one pair of great hands.
Jimmy and I arrived home to an awesome, complete meal provided by one of our great friends, Jack and Tiffany. Caesar salad, spaghetti with some of the yummiest sauce ever, and garlic bread. I love garlic bread. It was perfect. Just what we needed. A full meal of comfort food, and we didn’t have to life a finger. So special. Jimmy and I then stayed up late watching some of our favorite shows, without worrying about laughing too loud or keeping the volume down enough to not wake Turtle Toes. We even witnessed one of the most hilarious events that I have ever seen, thanks to our burping, not-so-sharp dog Cayman. Jimmy let our dogs into the screen porch from the backyard, and then opened the glass door, to let them into the house. Curby ran through and into the house, but Jimmy stayed on the porch. And so did Cayman. He thought that the door was still closed (even after seeing Curby run through) because Jimmy was still outside. He stood there, barking, begging Jimmy to open the already wide open door. He pawed at the open space, thinking it was a closed glass door. Not until he pawed so hard that his body fell through the door space onto the hardwood floor, did he realize that the door WAS open. He then ran through, barking. Poor blondie. I laughed so hard my belly hurt, something I haven’t done in months. After that episode, I capped off the evening with the last piece of Jimmy’s birthday cake. He’s such a good husband to let me have that honor. I’m not sure the evening could have gone any better. Garlic bread, laughs, love, relaxation, and cake. We are so blessed to have such great family and friends to put our minds and bellies at ease.
I slept well, and the 5am alarm was tolerated without too many groans. My mind was surprisingly clear, allowing my quiet time to be special and my prayers to be very articulate (a rare occurrence lately). On the way to the Surgery Center, my song came on the radio. “And the arms that gripped me felt like grace, and I realized in their embrace, to be held so tight I’ve never felt so free. I’ve never known a love like this. You’ve captured my heart and You brought the sweetest peace to my life, brought me into the light. Now I’m all Yours, Jesus, draw me into You.” Good morning, God. He was talking to me already. Fears that had started to bubble in my belly were immediately silenced by this song.
I was then fine, all the way up until we neared the center. That’s when the pit in my stomach made it’s debut. As I got out of the car and walked towards the entrance, I envisioned Jesus walking just a few steps ahead of me. He looked as I always picture Him, dressed in a long white robe, long brown hair, tan and chiseled features. He didn’t say a word, just walked peacefully ahead of me and I followed. The pit in my stomach started to dissolve.
In the waiting room, I had one episode of tears as I started to think of Taylor’s face, and then was immediately called over to sign papers. That was hard. To have to acknowledge what was happening, in medical words, clearly written on paper. But, I signed, and pulled it together emotionally.
Just a few seconds later, the nurse called my name. As I turned around, my eyes grew larger when the nurse repeated my name with enthusiasm and recognition, and grabbed me for a big hug. It was my friend, Kathleen. A friend that I met through another friend, probably 5 years ago. One of the sweetest, kindest, most gentle women I have ever met. My tears stopped immediately and my heart was at ease. So was Jimmy’s. We walked back, got my vitals and talked. Kathleen did my IV and I didn’t feel one thing. Seriously. It was clear that Jesus walked ahead of me into that building, handpicked the nurse, and guided her hands and her words to put me at ease. Over the course of the next 30 minutes in pre-op, I met a handful of nurses, all of whom had experienced at least one miscarriage. Each had a sense of peace, understanding, faith, and comfort about them that calmed every nerve in my body.
One of the most potentially emotionally-dangerous situations was when I was left alone in the pre-op room for about 15 minutes. If allowed, minds can wander and can cause severe paranoia. But, instead, I saw Him. He had taken a seat on the oversized pink chair that sat opposite my lounge chair. I saw Jesus sitting knee-to-knee with me. (And, no, I had no pain medications in my system at that point). It was all Him. He had the same disposition — quiet, confident, and bubbling with peace. Envisioning Him there carried me through the waiting time beautifully. The anesthesiologist then talked with me, more nurses, then Jimmy was invited back for a hug and a kiss before heading back to surgery.
I walked back to the OR, Jesus in tow, and, from there, I couldn’t tell you a thing. In the room, I only remember my sweet friend, Kathleen, and all of the nurses that had personally been where I was at one point in their lives. I felt at ease, loved, and had absolutely no fears.
I woke up in the recovery room and all I remember is Jimmy sitting there. The nurses brought me ginger ale and saltines. And, from what I understand, I did a lot of slurring and repeating myself. I even lost my mind a bit at one point. Jimmy told me that he was going to pick up a piece of Romanelli’s chocolate cake (my all-time favorite dessert) for me to eat tonight. Apparently, I said, emphatically, “I don’t need cake…but I could have some more of these (pointing to the saltines). These are GREAT.” Yeah. As soon as I fully came-to a few hours later, I was sure to clarify my desires to Jimmy. Cake, please.
I have napped this afternoon, continue to munch on saltines and sip on ginger ale (still a bit nauseous and woozy), but, most of all, I sit here in awe. In awe that I have so many friends that stayed up late and woke up early to pray for me. In awe that I am so at peace with all of this right now. In awe that I was blessed to have Kathleen as a nurse. And totally grateful, but not surprised, that Jesus was with me all morning. He walked with me; He blessed that surgery center with talented doctors and compassionate nurses; and rained peace over me He sat in that pink chair. And, now, He is rocking my Cupcake as Poppy bounces cloud to cloud singing and dancing. What a beautiful, loving God.
Filed under: Storms
Tomorrow is surgery day. The past 24 hours have included a lot of time talking and meeting with doctors, going over the procedure, talking about pain/anxiety management, and making sure I’m doing OK emotionally. And, thankfully, through it all, I have been at peace. Last night was good, and today has been positive as well. Even at today’s ultrasound that confirmed our baby’s diagnosis, I surprised myself how well I held it together. On top of that, I have been super productive, finishing four work projects this morning, therefore clearing my schedule until Friday so that I can focus on resting and healing. I am so grateful for this sense of calm about the whole situation.
I have to admit, however, that a bit of fear is creeping in about the surgery itself. I’m not so concerned about the pain or the needles or the IVs or the operation. I’m concerned about my emotions. I’m petrified that, upon seeing the Operating Room and the doctor, that my peaceful state will finally crumble. That Satan will creep in and make my once hopeful view on reality seem a little more dark. I’m also scared — I’m being totally honest, blunt and transparent here — that something horrible will happen. Signing papers about anesthesia risks is not a pleasant thing. Yes, I know it’s routine. But I am still scared. I do not know what is in the plan for me. I’ve become very aware that we can’t predict what is in the plan. And, I am beyond terrified that tonight will be the last time I see Taylor. (I know it sounds grim, but I’m merely venting my emotions in an effort to clear my mind. Writing it out usually helps alleviate my fears. That’s my hope here.) We are dropping Taylor off at my sister-in-law’s house tonight for a sleepover, since the surgery is so early in the morning. I can tell you right now that I am not going to handle that well. Saying “goodbye” is going to break me. Please pray that God gives me strength and peace tonight as we leave Taylor, and tomorrow morning before and during surgery. That His will is for me to handle surgery well, and that I am blessed to hug on my Taylor just a few hours later.
Having said all of this, I think that it is a great victory that I am currently at peace with the loss itself. That the surgery is the only obstacle that I face, and that, through God, I can conquer that fear as well. I am so grateful for His provision of hope to me right now. For family that loves me and reminds me that I am safe in His arms. For friends that gift us with meals and pray rain over our family. For a sister-in-law that lives just a few miles away that can keep Taylor busy with endless toys and energetic cousins. For ambrosia salad and its comforting, gooey marshmallows. For the scripture that has been sent to me by friends and family, because of the powerful truth that it speaks when I am uneasy. For my daughter and my husband that make me laugh when I am on the verge of tears. For a team of doctors and nurses that hug me and pray for me. And, most importantly, for God’s promise to unconditionally love, support, and provide — both under anesthesia and awake.
Please pray that I remain peaceful through tonight and tomorrow, that the doctor’s hands are guided by the Great Physician throughout surgery, that I am protected from gaining awareness of anything that will make the situation any more emotionally difficult, and that I am able to quickly begin on the road to healing. Until then, I will rest in His word.
Philippians 4
6Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.
7And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Peanut and Poppy 