what love is
I was driving home from the hospital yet again, with the news bouncing around my head that Nolan would be moving to the stepdown unit probably the next day. This was the final step before he got to come home!! I was elated and really was feeling God's goodness as I headed to see the other half of my family. I was still flying on the miracle that his heart had started doing amazing things all on it's own a few days before, after hearing the news that there may be some help needed from a pacemaker after his surgery. We had been completely deflated by that news after he came out of surgery. The hope had been that all would be well and he would be completely fine.
The night after he was out of surgery we were trying not to be overcome by the grief that he may need more surgery and a permanent pacemaker if a node in his heart didn't start firing on its own (something the doctor didn't understand the reason for happening). We got to be together at least and had been given a double pod to stay in at the hospital so we could both be there and see him that night and the next morning. We ate dinner sullenly and chatted with Ada on the phone before she went to bed while shift change took place, then went and sat by his bed for about an hour as he lay there like a limp doll, covered in wires, cords, IVs, bandages. The long bandage down his chest was the most ominous, along with the tube going into his chest for drainage, and the wires hooked up to his heart through the skin, where you could see the pulsing of his heart.
"This is what somebody looks like who is completely being run by machines," M said. I hated that it was true. He decided to go to bed for a few hours while I stayed, then we would switch. the only thing that lifted my spirits a little was that his fingers, feet, hands, arms began to slowly twitch and move as he came out of sedation slowly.
When I went back to the pod room and chatted with M as we exchanged places, I said to him, "You know that feeling you have when your heart has been broken? The sick, dropping of your heart, and how it doesn't go away for a while? You just walk around with it for a long time, until it slowly dulls. That's how I feel right now. I can't let it go. My heart hurts."
"Yeah, that's totally how it feels," he said. Then after looking at me for a second said, "That's what love is."
Love is the joy of seeing recovery, healing, wellness. We were going to experience with that with Nolan. But that night, love was broken dreams, some lost potential, the possibilities of more difficulties in life. We didn't know for sure what would happen, but because of that, we had more weight on our hearts. We spent a night wading through sorrow for what our son's life may have to be. We wanted only the best, and though he was well and would live and we were eternally grateful, we still wanted things to be as well as they could.
I took the shift the next morning after shift change and breakfast, and as I sat by his bed the surgeon happened to walk by as he finished his rounds. He saw me and came over quickly.
"Everything looks great, we can take him down on the pacemaker since his heart is beating well. He's doing really well."
"Wait, so the node is firing? His heart is fine?" I asked in a frantic burst of hope.
"Yep, yes, everything is fine. His node started firing the way it should just a bit ago and everything looks good. It's just what I expected it to do." He seemed fairly casual about it, but I didn't care. I was soaring.
Love is wanting all things good for those you care about most. Love is wanting to bring a child into the world and make things easier--not harder--on them. I wanted so badly for the surgery to be over, for him to heal, recover, come home, grow up, and live life as if it hadn't really happened. I wanted his life saved...and then for him to move on. It was a true miracle that it could even be done, that he could be repaired and live and move along through life. But what the bigger miracle to me was that he could just LIVE. That he was a unique person brought into the world and that we got to see him change, grow, develop just like we have with Ada. I wanted the potential of that for him and for us so badly. And that's what I got. I will be eternally grateful to God for every moment of Nolan's well-lived life.
That is love.
The night after he was out of surgery we were trying not to be overcome by the grief that he may need more surgery and a permanent pacemaker if a node in his heart didn't start firing on its own (something the doctor didn't understand the reason for happening). We got to be together at least and had been given a double pod to stay in at the hospital so we could both be there and see him that night and the next morning. We ate dinner sullenly and chatted with Ada on the phone before she went to bed while shift change took place, then went and sat by his bed for about an hour as he lay there like a limp doll, covered in wires, cords, IVs, bandages. The long bandage down his chest was the most ominous, along with the tube going into his chest for drainage, and the wires hooked up to his heart through the skin, where you could see the pulsing of his heart.
"This is what somebody looks like who is completely being run by machines," M said. I hated that it was true. He decided to go to bed for a few hours while I stayed, then we would switch. the only thing that lifted my spirits a little was that his fingers, feet, hands, arms began to slowly twitch and move as he came out of sedation slowly.
When I went back to the pod room and chatted with M as we exchanged places, I said to him, "You know that feeling you have when your heart has been broken? The sick, dropping of your heart, and how it doesn't go away for a while? You just walk around with it for a long time, until it slowly dulls. That's how I feel right now. I can't let it go. My heart hurts."
"Yeah, that's totally how it feels," he said. Then after looking at me for a second said, "That's what love is."
Love is the joy of seeing recovery, healing, wellness. We were going to experience with that with Nolan. But that night, love was broken dreams, some lost potential, the possibilities of more difficulties in life. We didn't know for sure what would happen, but because of that, we had more weight on our hearts. We spent a night wading through sorrow for what our son's life may have to be. We wanted only the best, and though he was well and would live and we were eternally grateful, we still wanted things to be as well as they could.
I took the shift the next morning after shift change and breakfast, and as I sat by his bed the surgeon happened to walk by as he finished his rounds. He saw me and came over quickly.
"Everything looks great, we can take him down on the pacemaker since his heart is beating well. He's doing really well."
"Wait, so the node is firing? His heart is fine?" I asked in a frantic burst of hope.
"Yep, yes, everything is fine. His node started firing the way it should just a bit ago and everything looks good. It's just what I expected it to do." He seemed fairly casual about it, but I didn't care. I was soaring.
Love is wanting all things good for those you care about most. Love is wanting to bring a child into the world and make things easier--not harder--on them. I wanted so badly for the surgery to be over, for him to heal, recover, come home, grow up, and live life as if it hadn't really happened. I wanted his life saved...and then for him to move on. It was a true miracle that it could even be done, that he could be repaired and live and move along through life. But what the bigger miracle to me was that he could just LIVE. That he was a unique person brought into the world and that we got to see him change, grow, develop just like we have with Ada. I wanted the potential of that for him and for us so badly. And that's what I got. I will be eternally grateful to God for every moment of Nolan's well-lived life.
That is love.
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