One year ago I sat in the Lynchburg ER listening to the doctor tell me I was being admitted to the hospital and was scheduled for surgery in the morning, Mother’s Day.
My mom and sister had driven up as soon as they heard what was happening. And suddenly there I was wheeled up to general surgery floor with my mom and Ryan taking Abigail home and my sister telling me she was staying. The surgery went fine and in 24 hours I was home. Not healed, but better.
Abigail woke up at 1:30 last night. I sat in the dark, rocking her as I had done so many times before. I could feel her precious head nestled in the spot between my shoulder and my neck. My smush. These moments are so fleeting now that I was peaceful with the knowledge I was still needed this way. I sat there and my heart became very quiet. Then wide awake with the realization of the parallel track my life seemed to be on.
Last year I just wanted to know when. If I could just know when Ryan would pack that last piece of gauze, when I would be able to sleep on my right side, when I would have my final follow up appointment. If I had these answers, I knew I could get through it. I didn’t have those answers. (If you’re curious it was three months and two quarts of saline, 8 boxes of gauze, and 10 follow up appointments later.)
This year I wanted to know when, too. When was it going to get easier? When would I be able to talk on the phone to a friend without crying? When was the stinking weather going to get better?
And then, the rhythm of Abigail’s breathing caught me off guard. In. Out. Like the tides. In. Out. Or possibly. Low. High. Isn’t that the rhythm of our life? Every in has an out and behind every low tide is a high one. You just have to wait with patience and hope. I’m not healed, but perhaps, better.