My baby girl was diagnosed with RSV at her pediatrician nearly two weeks ago. I took her to the doctor because, while we all had green snotty noses, she seemed to be laboring to breathe. When the doc walked in to our room, his typical smiley demeanor immediately changed, and he asked me, “How long as she been like this?” She had started sounding wheezy and crackly the night before, when my pediatrician husband noticed her breathing hard, and suggested that I call and make her an appointment. After checking her lungs and ears, he hypothesized that Autumn had RSV, a respiratory virus that essentially clogs the bronchioles with snot. In came two nurses. One did a nasal swab to confirm RSV, and the other brought a nebulizer so we could see if a breathing treatment of albuterol would help my baby’s lungs. After 15 minutes of her sitting in my lap and letting me hold the mask to her face, the wheezes and labor of breathing didn’t subside. The rapid test result confirmed RSV, but there wasn’t anything to do but wait it out. That was around Day 2 or 3, and generally, the doc explained, the worst of RSV happens on Days 4-6. He warned me that we would need to take her to the Emergency room if her breathing got worse. Mike and I had her sleep in our room that night so we could monitor her all night. The next morning, she was no better, but not worse. Throughout the day, I could tell her energy and oxygen levels were draining. She started getting dark circles under her eyes. We had in our room again that night. Around 3am, she woke us up in a coughing fit. It was time. Mike took her to the ER and I stayed home while our two year old, Noelle, slept. I called my mom who lives a few hours away in Wilmington. The emotion fell out of me when she answered. “I’m getting in the car and leaving as soon as I can,” she said as soon as I told her that Autumn was in the hospital. After the call disconnected, I could barely speak. I allowed myself to break down and cry until no more tears would come. Then, I washed my face and got dressed. I knew it would be at least four hours before my mom would arrive, so I woke up Noelle, we ate breakfast, and we headed to the hospital.
Autumn was so tired, she could barely pick up her head when we walked in. Every breath, in and out, was work for her. Her cries for me were pitiful whimpers. She had tubes in each nostril forcing oxygen into her little body. Three dice-sized electrodes were stuck to her chest to monitor her heart rate and her breathing rate. I could tell she wanted to nurse, but she barely had the energy. I was clumsy with all the wires. Mike had to hand her to me. An hour after we arrived, Autumn’s room up on the pediatric floor was ready. Mike held both our girls in his lap on the hospital bed and I followed, as they were rolled through the meandering hallways and gaping elevators. We were ushered into Autumn’s room at the end of a hall with one big window overlooking the fountain in front of the hospital and the rooftops of homes nearby.
The next day, it was clear she was not drinking or feeding enough, so an IV was placed in her left arm. Her thumb was taped to a foam board along her forearm to prevent that IV line coming out, so we called it her “club hand.” With all the wires and tubes connected to her, it was so hard to pick her up to hold and snuggle her. We were tethered to her monitors, and couldn’t walk with her farther than just a few feet from her crib. She would sit in her tiny hospital gown tugging angrily at her tubes with that useless club hand. She also had a “Rudolph toe” that was a red light taped around her big toe to monitor her oxygen saturation. Child life specialists dropped in and offered her toys that kept her occupied when she had the energy to be awake and play. Mike stayed the nights with her and I came during the day so that I could attempt to nurse. My mom was such a blessing, taking care of Noelle while we were gone and/or asleep, and making meals.
Physically, we were all taken care of. I was emotionally numb. I did what I needed to do each day in kind of a mechanical trance. I had zero energy left over to pray. I let others do that for me, which upset me that I was that shakeable. Admittedly though, my main reason for not praying was that I was so angry at God for letting my baby get this sick, I didn’t feel like talking to him.
Helpless. My arms tied back behind me.
Watching you struggle all alone and frail
in that too-big hospital bed.
I can't comfort you with my arms like I want.
Your tubes connecting your body to machines and IVs
hold back my ability to hug and squeeze you tight.
Your lips are dry since you can't nurse or drink.
Your cheeks and lashes are salt-encrusted
since I can't wipe away your tears.
Your hospital gown makes you look even more exposed.
Your feeble cries wring out my heart.
My days in your hospital room and nights alone in my bed
transform me into an emotionless machine;
doing the next step to get you well.
Expecting others to do the praying.
I can't do it all.
We came home from the hospital on Monday afternoon, and my mom went back home to Wilmington. Tuesday morning I had both girls to myself as Mike had gone back to work. I was still treating Autumn like a wounded cub, but Noelle wanted attention from me too, since I’d been gone during her waking hours for the past few days. That was a long, hard day. I know in my head that my children are sweet blessings from God. That no matter how painful life on earth becomes, God is still God. That God loves me and each of my girls more than I can fathom. And that it is up to Him how long we are each on this earth, before he scoops us up and takes us back home. It’s our job on earth during this wisp of a life to display God’s love to each other and to the world so that more people can know God’s love for themselves. It is my prayer that my girls radiate God’s love to the earth in mighty and powerful ways, more than I could ever dream. And from my very aching soul, I pray that they would carry out their mission long after Mike and I are watching them from God’s lap in Heaven.
Today’s Five Minute Friday prompt is the word, ONE. You can link up or read other writers’ thoughts on this word here.
A few days ago, I went in to my oldest daughter Noelle’s bedroom to get her out of bed. When I held her to my chest, I could hear little wheezes and pops deep in her lungs. I knew her snotty-nosed cold got pushed down overnight. As I collected the tubing and the medicine for her nebulizer, my baby, Autumn, woke up. After a strong quiet time with God that morning, I was ready for this. I had read an encouraging chapter in Colossians and had a great time journaling and praying. I scooped up my baby and brought her into Noelle’s room. I sat on the floor nursing Autumn while Noelle sat in her rocking chair next to me, and I held Noelle’s mask during her breathing treatment. I felt like Wonder Woman. Serene and strong. Fast forward ten hours. My husband and I had been downstairs for about an hour when I decided to go upstairs and check on Noelle since she’d been bouncing in her bed for the last fifteen minutes. I opened the door and it reeked of poop. I flicked on the light. My nose wasn’t wrong. Poop was smeared everywhere. All down her legs. All up her arms. All over her bed sheets. On the neck straps and the leg openings of the swimming suit that she’d pulled on over her diaper. I flipped out. No longer was I Wonder Woman. I was a raving mad, barking Chihuahua. As I laid in bed that night next to my husband, our girls were both tucked in to clean beds, and all was right, for that one moment.
This week, I’m joining the Five Minute Friday writing community in writing on the word Repeat, for five minutes flat. Click here to read other great writers, and/or to join us!
Having two little ones under 2.5 years old requires a routine. Wake up, feed baby, put her back to sleep, sneak in a few more minutes of sleep, then go downstairs to make coffee and oatmeal, get toddler out of her room, eat breakfast. My morning would be a blur and all of a sudden, it would be lunchtime and then naps, then I’d make dinner while both girls slept. Then they’d wake up, my husband would come home from work, we’d all eat dinner, then the bedtime routine for the girls, then my husband and I would relax and watch tv until bedtime for us. With this schedule on repeat five days a week (or more if my husband was on call over the weekend), I was dragging. I was giving and going nonstop with nothing filling me. Until two Sundays ago. We were at church and our pastor and his wife invited us to join them on their 21 day fast. As a nursing mama, skipping out on food that long is not even a consideration. So I wondered what else I could give up. And then I realized that instead of sneaking in those extra minutes of sleep, I could read my Bible and journal. What a huge difference that has made in my whole countenance! I’m not on autopilot anymore. Starting the day off with my Creator and reading truth into my soul has filled me with such joy and peace that I find my days fun and exciting. No longer drudgery or boring routine. Every outing or even playtime at home is an opportunity for me to share Jesus with my girls and with whoever we meet.
As the month of October draws to a close, with it brings the colors of Fall and crunchy leaves on the sidewalk. Tomorrow, non-stop Christmas radio stations will begin, and the holiday season will be uncorked. The spooky graveyards and orange lights will be replaced by white strings of happy, welcoming light. The squishy carved pumpkins that as of late have become squirrel (and fly) treats will be tossed out and replaced by wreaths and trees. Sheer fabric ghosts hanging on tree limbs will be swapped out for ornaments. Fall is my favorite season, although it is fleeting.
My mom, my sister, and my aunts (my mom’s sisters) all have the same voice. I can remember having both aunts visit us one summer, and they were all in the kitchen downstairs while I was upstairs getting ready. I couldn’t tell them apart. When one spoke, I couldn’t tell who was speaking. I know my daughters’ voices. I can distinguish their cries from other kids’ on a playground or in their Sunday school classes. My husband has a deep, bellowing voice with a hint of a Boston accent. We know the voices of those we know the best, even with our eyes closed.
Stop striving so hard to do everything on your own.
I watch you struggle, saddened;
I want you to ask me for help.
I can’t let you succeed at everything
or you will falsely believe you don’t need me.
Stop getting so frustrated, My Child.
Just whisper my name, Jesus
and I’ll fill you with peace and work through your hands.
Search for me in my Word
and I’ll give you wisdom.
Reach out to me when you are empty
and I’ll fill you up to overflowing.
Press in close to me
when everyone else has abandoned you.
I created you to need me. It is not a weakness to acknowledge your need.
You have freedom when you allow me to be your strength.
You have abundant life when you let me in.
When we put our two-year-old to bed at night, it’s always the same routine. Brush teeth, sit on the rocking chair in Daddy’s lap, Momma sits on the rocking footstool with Baby Sister, we all read a book together, say a prayer, then sing songs before getting tucked in. Usually for the singing part of the night, I pass the baby over to Daddy, and I hold the two-year-old while we sing. Daddy and Baby sister stay for one song, then I continue holding my oldest for another song or two, depending on how many she can coax out of me. Twinkle Twinkle, Row Row Row Your Boat, This Little Light of Mine, You are My Sunshine, I’ve Been Working on the Railroad, Frere Jacques, Amazing Grace, Jesus Loves Me, and Jesus Loves the Little Children are our staples. Then, other songs I grew up singing in church will pop into my head and I’ll sing those too. Her laughing eyes look at me, and she asks, “Where did that song come from?” I’ll usually answer her, “From my head, Mademoiselle,” then kiss her goodnight.
Everything can change in just one moment:
A door slams.
That first kiss.
A striking match.
Blowing out a candle.
A baby’s first cry.
Swallowing that first taste of alcohol.
It is finished.
As I sit in the living room with my husband, the World Series is on in the background. I’ve just spent the last ten or fifteen minutes with my head down swiping through Facebook posts and friend suggestions. Not a single word was said between me and my husband. Now as I sit to write my five minutes for today, I realize how easy it is to become distracted and have an entire evening pass away without any substantial conversation occurring between us. Half-listening as we either watch tv or have our heads buried in our phones, neither of us are giving the other our whole, undivided attention. Lord, thank you for not letting this go unchecked or unnoticed.
To capture a moment in time on film
to capture a butterfly or firefly in your hands
to capture someone’s personality in a single frame.
To take captive every thought that intends to destroy us
to allow our hearts to be captured by love
to allow our minds to be captured in wonder.
We have the ability to capture and be captured.
Do we use it for good? Do we allow the Truth to capture our attention?