So, this post has been brewing for a few days, but it’s a hard one to write. Plus, I don’t want to sound like I’m having a pity party, but that’s kind of what it feels like some days. See, I’m back in the hospital again…today is two years from when I came to the hospital and was put on a ventilator. This episode has been minor in comparison, but the scary thing this time is that I’m 35 weeks pregnant.
Two years ago, I didn’t know if I’d wake up again. They predicted a rather low survival rate, and no one knew if I’d come off the ventilator alive or not. My prayer at the time, however, was not for my own life. I prayed earnestly for the right influences in the lives of my two boys, and for the healing of the hearts of the people that would be affected. I prayed so hard that the anesthesiologist had a hard time knocking me out. I was comfortable with the thought of the end of my life…no doubt, I have two sweet boys that I don’t want to leave behind, but I know where I’m spending eternity, and that gave me hope.
This year, there was no concern about my survival, and only minimal concern about the baby…and that concern mainly centered on the possibility of an early delivery. (She’s still happily cooking where she belongs!) But something weird happened this time, and it stings more than I care to admit. Life just kept going, without me. This sounds terribly selfish, in my head, on paper, when I say it out loud. Of course life goes on without me, and I don’t truly want to be the center of the universe or anything, but it doesn’t even feel like there was a hiccup. Work carried on, the kids went to their dad’s, home continued to operate, and I didn’t have a hand in any of it.
The last two hospital stays that I got to experience included quite a few visitors, and my Mom was here. And convincing a mom to leave the bedside of her sick kid is impossible. So, I never faced the doctors, or the tests, or fears of those big words alone. This time, however, in the midst of the holidays and the busyness of life, I’ve faced the majority of it alone. And I feel so torn by all of it. I want to say it is peaceful to know that life goes on without me – that the influence I have is real and present and that those people I love can also survive without me. I want to feel like facing these last few days has made me brave, because I did it with very little hand holding. But the truth is, I have felt completely abandoned, easily forgotten, and deeply afraid. I feel useless, and helpless, and very, very small.
So, because I can’t ever just stop there, and I have to find something good, and a lesson, and I want to grow into a better person because of these things, I keep asking what to do with this? What have I gained? What have I learned? And honestly, I don’t know. I have realized why it is important to spend time with the people we love, to let them know they are important and wanted. I am thankful for the time the boys and I spent volunteering in a nursing home, and I hope that we helped someone feel important by being there. And maybe that’s the big thing, we all need to know we are loved and wanted, and that it has nothing to do with whether we can cook and clean, are healthy or sick, or how we look.
So, what am I doing to help the people around me know that I love them, for them, and not based on their performance, their health, or their abilities? How am I helping the people around me feel important in the day to day busyness of this crazy life?