(no subject)
I don't really know where to start with this, and I know what it's not going to be... I'm just not quite sure what it is going to be.
Levi does not have Growth Hormone Deficiency. While this is amazing news, and I will go into details later about whats going on, I feel like I need to capture my thoughts at this very moment.
I have spent the last 2 months in a perpetual state of fear. The last 3 weeks or so, a state of panic. I have been medicating myself with Xanax nearly 24/7 to stave off panic attacks, and sleeping pills every night to go to sleep and escape my thoughts.
I don't believe you truly know fear until you hear that something could be wrong with your child.
Now, the clouds have parted. We still have a long road ahead, with testing, and adjusting his diet and a variety of things, but the fears of cancer and shots have left. And though it is inexplicable, I am going to try and describe how that feels.
Despite starting my family at a young age, I believe I have a greater sense of wonder and awe of my son than many older, wiser, more mature first time mothers too. This is not a condemnation of them in any way. And I am generalizing to make a point. But for me, I was raised my entire life to have a sense of awe at the beauty of God's creation, of the complexity of the universe, of the true beauty to the world He created. This was taught to me every day by my parents more than any scholastic education or math equation. To take joy in LIFE, and the pain and pleasure that it entails. To never lose my sense of awe at the world and its beauty. To trust in God and fear Him, not in the sense of being afraid, but to just be in, well awe of His power and creativity and sense of love and purpose for my life and that of others. I was aware from a very young age that this world is far more complex than it appears, and that has given me a unique perspective. Other kids were kicking the ball around the playground, and I was pondering other galaxies, other worlds, angels and demons, spiritual planes, and things of that nature.
I believe that, as the Bible says, the pinacle of God's creation was mankind. And I don't just believe this because of the verses that I learned in Sunday school. I don't believe I even fully comprehended it then. It became a reality when I held my son in my arms for the first time. When I held a tiny bundle of a human being, brimming with such life and potential and all the things that make this world what it is: a place of wonder.
Too often we forget to stop and let our imaginations run wild, to imagine God's purpose for us as a human, as a society, as a species, and as a planet. And while the purpose of the many is important, it all boils down to the purpose of one: of a little baby held in the arms of its new mother.
When Levi was born prematurely, my world turned upside down. There was pain I had never imagined I would experience: having my son taken from my arms within minutes of his birth and whisked away to a unit that I couldn't even visit for nearly 24 hours due to my condition, having to go home without my so loved child in my arms. Coming home to a bedroom with a bassinet and changing table and little dresser all stocked and waiting, while my son lay in an isolette in a sterile, unloving hospital. The pain was enough to make me wonder about my ability to be as strong as I needed to be to be a good mother.
I think that missing those first few days of his life, that my delivery of my baby being in a spirit of fear, not just joy and excitement, gave me a deeper appreciate for how fragile life is. It is a gift, not a right. It is precious and fragile and it is hard to believe sometimes that a just God could allow pain and suffering in a world where something and perfect and innocent and amazing as a newborn baby could be.
When the issue of a possible growth hormone deficiency was raised, I felt my heart leap to my throat. I am so happy in my life, with a wonderful husband and family, loyal and steadfast friends, a roof over my head, food on my table, and most importantly, the most beautiful little boy in the world. Sometimes it is hard to believe that that sort of happiness can be maintained... I felt like the rug was finally being pulled out from under my feet, that fate has noticed it had dolled out an unfair amount of happiness to me and was going to even the score.
Looking at my precious son even caused me pain. I felt myself distancing myself from him, out of fear that I was going to lose what I had fought so hard to nurture and love and give a sense of security to. I pulled away and internalized. It was safer there. And so very very lonely.
There was no one in my life that seemed to truly understand the depth of my fear. Most of the people in my life have been blessed with healthy children, and will hopefully never have to know the depth of my panic and distress.
I prayed harder than I have ever prayed in my life in these past few weeks. And my final prayer, a few days before this appointment, was the hardest I have ever prayed. I feel as though I finally understood how Jesus felt in the garden of Gethsemane saying "Your will, not Mine, be done". I sat outside my apartment in the middle of the night, wracked with sobs, speaking to God with a candor that frightened me. I cursed Him, asked Why? over and over and over, and finally forced myself to speak my fears out loud, something that felt like jinxing everything. I said the word cancer, the word tumor, and the world death aloud. I never understood before how ugly and terrifying those words were until I was considering the possibility of it being my little boy.
And I finally managed to choke out the words "Thy will be done."
I cannot say that a miracle took place in the past few days where any potential problems disappeared into the night with a flick of God's wrist and a "Let there be health" coming out of his mouth. But there was a miracle just the same, even if it was not with that sort of flair.
There was the miracle of life. The miracle that we get at least one more day with those that we love. The miracle that God is big enough to handle our anger, our worry, our fear, and our fate. The miracle that it is even possible that God loves my son even more than I do (which I still find hard to believe sometimes). There was a miracle.
There was a miracle today in that for the first time in nearly a month, I was able to look at my baby and genuinely smile and laugh at this antics without dark thoughts creeping into my mind. There was a miracle when he smeared pizza sauce in his hair. There was a miracle when I asked him if I could have a bite of his pizza and he held it to his chest and declared "I got! I got! I got!".
There was a miracle that I was actually able to trust God enough to put my son's life in his hands and let go.
I see patterns where others only seem to see chaos, and I see purpose where others see meaningless coincidences. I see God's hand.
A few nights ago, through my tears, I asked God "Why?". Now I know.
Because without the fear that I went through, without the test of faith and test of everything in me, I would not have found as much joy in my son as I do today. God gave me a gift, and taught me a lesson, as hard as it was to bear. He reminded me that part of what makes this world so awe inspiring is its fragility, and the fact that we need to lean on Him. Part of what makes His gift of life so special is that we need Him to get through it. And that miracles do still happen every day. The sky doesn't have to part and a tower of fire doesn't have to spin across the plains. A miracle is another day. A life. A child. And a miracle is reminding a mother to never stop appreciating those moments.
That's a miracle.
Levi does not have Growth Hormone Deficiency. While this is amazing news, and I will go into details later about whats going on, I feel like I need to capture my thoughts at this very moment.
I have spent the last 2 months in a perpetual state of fear. The last 3 weeks or so, a state of panic. I have been medicating myself with Xanax nearly 24/7 to stave off panic attacks, and sleeping pills every night to go to sleep and escape my thoughts.
I don't believe you truly know fear until you hear that something could be wrong with your child.
Now, the clouds have parted. We still have a long road ahead, with testing, and adjusting his diet and a variety of things, but the fears of cancer and shots have left. And though it is inexplicable, I am going to try and describe how that feels.
Despite starting my family at a young age, I believe I have a greater sense of wonder and awe of my son than many older, wiser, more mature first time mothers too. This is not a condemnation of them in any way. And I am generalizing to make a point. But for me, I was raised my entire life to have a sense of awe at the beauty of God's creation, of the complexity of the universe, of the true beauty to the world He created. This was taught to me every day by my parents more than any scholastic education or math equation. To take joy in LIFE, and the pain and pleasure that it entails. To never lose my sense of awe at the world and its beauty. To trust in God and fear Him, not in the sense of being afraid, but to just be in, well awe of His power and creativity and sense of love and purpose for my life and that of others. I was aware from a very young age that this world is far more complex than it appears, and that has given me a unique perspective. Other kids were kicking the ball around the playground, and I was pondering other galaxies, other worlds, angels and demons, spiritual planes, and things of that nature.
I believe that, as the Bible says, the pinacle of God's creation was mankind. And I don't just believe this because of the verses that I learned in Sunday school. I don't believe I even fully comprehended it then. It became a reality when I held my son in my arms for the first time. When I held a tiny bundle of a human being, brimming with such life and potential and all the things that make this world what it is: a place of wonder.
Too often we forget to stop and let our imaginations run wild, to imagine God's purpose for us as a human, as a society, as a species, and as a planet. And while the purpose of the many is important, it all boils down to the purpose of one: of a little baby held in the arms of its new mother.
When Levi was born prematurely, my world turned upside down. There was pain I had never imagined I would experience: having my son taken from my arms within minutes of his birth and whisked away to a unit that I couldn't even visit for nearly 24 hours due to my condition, having to go home without my so loved child in my arms. Coming home to a bedroom with a bassinet and changing table and little dresser all stocked and waiting, while my son lay in an isolette in a sterile, unloving hospital. The pain was enough to make me wonder about my ability to be as strong as I needed to be to be a good mother.
I think that missing those first few days of his life, that my delivery of my baby being in a spirit of fear, not just joy and excitement, gave me a deeper appreciate for how fragile life is. It is a gift, not a right. It is precious and fragile and it is hard to believe sometimes that a just God could allow pain and suffering in a world where something and perfect and innocent and amazing as a newborn baby could be.
When the issue of a possible growth hormone deficiency was raised, I felt my heart leap to my throat. I am so happy in my life, with a wonderful husband and family, loyal and steadfast friends, a roof over my head, food on my table, and most importantly, the most beautiful little boy in the world. Sometimes it is hard to believe that that sort of happiness can be maintained... I felt like the rug was finally being pulled out from under my feet, that fate has noticed it had dolled out an unfair amount of happiness to me and was going to even the score.
Looking at my precious son even caused me pain. I felt myself distancing myself from him, out of fear that I was going to lose what I had fought so hard to nurture and love and give a sense of security to. I pulled away and internalized. It was safer there. And so very very lonely.
There was no one in my life that seemed to truly understand the depth of my fear. Most of the people in my life have been blessed with healthy children, and will hopefully never have to know the depth of my panic and distress.
I prayed harder than I have ever prayed in my life in these past few weeks. And my final prayer, a few days before this appointment, was the hardest I have ever prayed. I feel as though I finally understood how Jesus felt in the garden of Gethsemane saying "Your will, not Mine, be done". I sat outside my apartment in the middle of the night, wracked with sobs, speaking to God with a candor that frightened me. I cursed Him, asked Why? over and over and over, and finally forced myself to speak my fears out loud, something that felt like jinxing everything. I said the word cancer, the word tumor, and the world death aloud. I never understood before how ugly and terrifying those words were until I was considering the possibility of it being my little boy.
And I finally managed to choke out the words "Thy will be done."
I cannot say that a miracle took place in the past few days where any potential problems disappeared into the night with a flick of God's wrist and a "Let there be health" coming out of his mouth. But there was a miracle just the same, even if it was not with that sort of flair.
There was the miracle of life. The miracle that we get at least one more day with those that we love. The miracle that God is big enough to handle our anger, our worry, our fear, and our fate. The miracle that it is even possible that God loves my son even more than I do (which I still find hard to believe sometimes). There was a miracle.
There was a miracle today in that for the first time in nearly a month, I was able to look at my baby and genuinely smile and laugh at this antics without dark thoughts creeping into my mind. There was a miracle when he smeared pizza sauce in his hair. There was a miracle when I asked him if I could have a bite of his pizza and he held it to his chest and declared "I got! I got! I got!".
There was a miracle that I was actually able to trust God enough to put my son's life in his hands and let go.
I see patterns where others only seem to see chaos, and I see purpose where others see meaningless coincidences. I see God's hand.
A few nights ago, through my tears, I asked God "Why?". Now I know.
Because without the fear that I went through, without the test of faith and test of everything in me, I would not have found as much joy in my son as I do today. God gave me a gift, and taught me a lesson, as hard as it was to bear. He reminded me that part of what makes this world so awe inspiring is its fragility, and the fact that we need to lean on Him. Part of what makes His gift of life so special is that we need Him to get through it. And that miracles do still happen every day. The sky doesn't have to part and a tower of fire doesn't have to spin across the plains. A miracle is another day. A life. A child. And a miracle is reminding a mother to never stop appreciating those moments.
That's a miracle.