Adapt

Well, my boys make me cry. Shane's situation for the pure unfairness of the sensory and inflammatory attack on his little body; and Chris for his unmatched love.  All of your comments and emails and texts are so encouraging and wonderful to read. It is amazing how surrounded we are by love and prayer. 

I slept with my slippers on. Notable for two reasons: 1) I slept; and 2) who in the world sleeps with slippers? If you are one of the lucky ones, I commend you for practicing a sleeping technique that is clearly superior. 

Anyway, I was shuffling (in my slippers) the long walk to the parent's bathroom when I had a moment of clarity and perspective. I laughed at myself for sleeping with my slippers and I thanked God that I slept last night.  Compared to the first night we were here, I got 3x the amount of sleep. Moreover, I didn't wake every time the nurse suctioned Shane's tube (which is incredibly painful and confusing for him).  

Those simple things helped me realize how quickly we all adapt. For the first time in his life, and NOT by choice, Shane has been still and quiet. Shane doesn't cry or wince as much when they shove a 15" straw down his breathing tube and pull mucous and breath from his lungs. Neither do I. Shane has learned quickly (what's new!?) how to make his needs known by nodding yes, shaking his head no, or yanking his balloon around. We've learned quickly how to respond to those simple needs. Shane doesn't have a look of pure panic when he hears the alarms that typically preclude a painful procedure. Our bodies and ears have grown accustomed to alarms, hums, and beeps that are ever-present in an ICU hospital room. 

We've adapted to unusual circumstances. We've adapted to sleeping in uncomfortable beds, sometimes in our clothes. We've become used to the weirdness and vacuum of living in a hospital. Despite the overall suckiness (is that a word?) of the situation, we've seemingly "stepped up to the plate."  We will never get used to the separation and inablity to hug or hold our sons, not hearing our children laugh or play; we will never adapt to the feeling of pure helplessness of seeing our sons in pain.  And yet at the same time, I am newly reassured by this simple skill of adaptation that we humans have, that Chris and I have. It keeps me going and makes me realize that regardless of how painful, scary, unfair, sucky, fill-in-the-blank, we will adapt--Chris and I together--to whatever the future holds.