Overwhelming

Last Thursday, Matt, Sophie, Will and I packed up to go and meet Baby Cole, the long-awaited second son of my very best friend, Ashley. Cole was born at 39 weeks, but since his brother, Jack, was born at 35 weeks, we all felt that Cole was around a month late! Cole arrived in his own time and is a perfect little bundle. I so love witnessing precious new life, and while every new baby is precious and irristable, the love I feel for the child of people I love so dearly is overwhelming. 

After my visit with Cole on Thursday night, I returned back to my parents house, showing pictures and talking late into the night. Just as we were heading to bed around 1:30 a.m., the phone rang. It was my aunt telling us that the paramedics were working on my grandfather, though they weren't yet sure if it was his heart or possibly pneumonia. Either way, sleep was out of the question, even though Aunt Pam assured us that Big Dad was walking and talking, totally aware of what was going on around him. I slept little before Will woke up, but settled in for a nap when Will took his first one, only to be awakened by my mom telling me that the news about Big Dad was not at all good. 

The news was that Big Dad's only hope of survival was a surgery that he was not likely to survive. Big Dad suffered a massive heart attack in February of 1994, during my senior year of high school. His prognosis at the time was not at all good, but his strength and determination along with God's grace carried him through the surgery to a remarkable recovery. After that point, I was keenly aware of how precious his life was - at least for the next 10 years or so. He has done so well for so long, that I admit that somewhere along the way, I forgot what a perilous condition his was. I should not have been shocked that it would be his heart, but I was. I should not have felt totally overwhelmed that his life was at definite risk. But I did.

I decided in a few quiet moment in my parents house that the next few days would have to be ridden like a wave. I have at least partially learned the lesson that I can't control anything or anyone, least of all medical situations. We decided that we would give my parents a day in Birmingham before we all left the following day. 

I spent the evening at the hospital with Ashley and Cole and was thankful for those precious moments with my friend and her new little one. I had planned on being with Ash for a week, and I was sad that that would not be the case, though I knew that I was needed elsewhere. It was strange to feel so many conflicting emotions at once. Truly I feel like I learned to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep. I imagine a mother feels this way when one child is celebrating a success while another is holding on for dear life.

We had two great days in Birmingham. The children so enjoyed time with Papa (we call him Big Dad, they call him Papa). The heart attack he experienced early Friday morning was indeed mild, largely because it did not complete. The surgery was necessary to ensure this could happen without incident. In the mean time, Big Dad was up and about, all but normal. Such a difference between seeing him before his last surgery. I thought 15 years ago that there was no way this man could live through even the most minor surgery, much less open-heart with quadruple bypass. 

 

 I had the opportunity to spend a couple of hours with Big Dad by myself, and the entire family had the opportunity to meet and pray with his surgeon. We found out that his chance of surviving the surgery was much better than we had been told. I went home Sunday night feeling somewhat better. I had some doubts about how Sophie was processing things, and Tori told me that Sunday night just before drifting off to sleep, she asked, "Tori, Do you really think Papa will ever come home?" The love between a four year old girl and her seventy-nine year old great-grandfather. Overwhelming.

I couldn't get to sleep on Sunday night, and I noticed my throat was hurting. By mid-morning, I was having chill and sweats in addition to the sore throat, so I decided not to go in and see him before surgery, though I had Matt bring Will in. (Soph was at my Aunt Jan's). My mom told me that he really wanted to see me, so I went and stood at the door of his room until the techs came to pick him up. Watching him and Will snuggling, nuzzling and sometimes scrapping (they are both scrappers!) made my own heart want to explode. Overwhelming.

I spent much of the early afternoon laying across a two-seater hospital waiting room chair, thinking I was sick, not realizing just how sick I would be in a matter of hours. Thankfully due to concoction of Prilosec, Tylenol and Advil I was up and about for several hours including when we received the news that the surgery was a success. Overwhelmingly grateful hearts filled that waiting room. 

The next few days are a total blur. I've not seen Big Dad again, as I came down with what could only be the flu. High fever, major chills, body aches, sore throat, runny nose, etc. I'm quite sure I've not been this sick since childhood. As a bonus, sometime on Monday night, Matt came down with the flu as well. If I'd had clear thoughts, I'm sure I would have wondered what we were going to do... I didn't need to worry. My sisters, Tori and Hope and my future brother-in-law, Derek rallied and took total care of my children. Dressed, bathed, fed, diapered, read to, played with. So much so, that Hope (who also forgot her flu shot) came back to Atlanta with us and cared for our children as our Ukrainian Mary Poppins. Firm, but kind - with a hint of a Russian accent. I know I can never repay the kindness I've been shown, but I do I hope I get the opportunity to rock my sisters' babies, read to their little ones, and help their homes stay running when they aren't able to run them themselves. 

In the mean time, I remain overwhelmed. At the beauty of life young and old. At the goodness of God's grace. At the taking for granted of a healthy body. At the love of a family. At the love of my family.