I tried to brighten Christopher's mood in anyway I could. I talked to him, sang to him, and massaged his aching little body. The nurses put a soft pad underneath him to help him feel more comfortable. They even swaddled him tightly in his favorite blanket to give him a sense of security. One of the nurses even joked that she was wrapping him like a "little burrito." I tried to smile and speak in encouraging tones to "my little burrito" as much as possible in order to reassure him. I even played soft music to soothe him.
I don't know if any of it really made a difference for him, but I had to do something. I felt so helpless and useless. A mother is the one who is supposed to be able to comfort her baby, but I wasn't able to relieve his pain. Only time could do that, and it seemed like time was standing still. His recovery was painfully slow and long. It was no wonder that he was depressed. He had every right to be, and he wasn't the only one feeling that way. I was depressed too, but I tried to stay positive for his sake. I refused to allow myself to cry or become consumed with grief. I had to stay strong. Christopher needed me to be.
When Christopher was sleeping, I would fill my time with coffee, books, or talking with our roommates. Sometimes there would be other parents in the room I could commiserate with. We would discuss our children and the terrible fate they were living out. We would listen to each other's stories, bounce ideas off one another, and lift each other up as best we could. It seemed like a futile attempt to find some sense of balance, normalcy, and camaraderie in the midst of our broken lives.
Our sick children were what we had in common, and it linked us in a special way. There were aspects of this that other people, try as hard as they may, just couldn't understand. It's one thing to hear about something bad happening to someone elses child, even if it's a child you know, but it's another thing when that sick child is your child. It's not that others don't want to understand. It's just that there is a certain unique understanding when it's happening to your child.
It's difficult to explain. It wasn't that I was alone in this. I had a huge support team. My family and friends were always there, always looking to help, always trying to listen and support me. It's just that sometimes you feel very "alone" with it because it's your child. It's happening to you. People would visit everyday. They brought love, support, and lots of food. Everyone was helping out with Michael and Ryan. Auntie and both grandmas were on the job. They took turns caring for the boys, but sometimes late at night I would be alone with my thoughts. I would realize that ultimately this was my child, my problem, my challenge. Other people could help me through it, but in the end it was my responsibility.
|Mike and LeAnne..."party of two"|
If you have never accepted Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, you can pray like this: