Part of being a parent, I suppose, is going through really
scary experiences, even near-death experiences with your kids. I suppose many
parents have those moments where they feel helpless to protect their children.
They realize how fragile life is and they wake up resolved to treasure every
moment they have. That’s how I’m waking up this morning.
We have been so blessed as parents with healthy kids, safe
environments, and no major injuries in our family... until this year. In March,
when I was in Ethiopia, Levi ended up in the hospital for 3 days unable to
breathe on his own. After that, I set aside my international travels for the
remainder of the year. And it was a good thing, because shortly after that,
Debra was in the same hospital with pneumonia. Then I had a meningitis scare
(turned out to be a horrible virus)... not to mention the ramping-up of daily
crazy as Levi hit the worst stage of potty training, food anxiety,
accident-proneness, and hitting/kicking/biting.... and Juniper became a toddler
full of curiosity and a loud, opinionated personality of her own.
Friday night, we were swimming with some friends in their
pool. There were 7 kids between 4 adults. Juniper had been going back and forth
between the moms in the kiddie pool and the dads in the big pool. Her new
favorite game is jumping into a parents arms while squishing her eyes shut
against the splashing water. The other kids were either independent swimmers or
wearing floaties. Every two minutes, my friend Brent would stop our
conversation and do a head count. I remember thinking he was being a bit
paranoid. After all, we were in the pool, right next to the kids, and keeping
our eyes on them at all times.
But things happen fast and nobody heard the splash. It was
only when Brent started counting heads that we both saw it: a small pink object
flailing in slow motion beneath the surface of the water 10 feet away. At first
I thought it was one of the older kids swimming underwater until Brent started
lunging towards it. Juniper had apparently crawled on to the top step of the
shallow end at the very moment that all 10 pairs of eyes were off her. Then she must have stepped out just over
her head. My heart dropped when Brent pulled Juniper out of the water limp and
blue around the lips. I rushed to grab her and for one endless I didn’t know
if she was conscious or not. Then she threw up, coughed, and started to cry a
weak, terrified cry. Relief, guilt, and fear all rushed in as I held her bent
over to clear the water from her lungs and everybody came rushing over wanting
to know what happened.
Juniper was breathing rapidly and her heart was pounding.
For a moment, nobody knew quite what to do next.. Then in a flurry, an
ambulance was called, but being close to the hospital we decided to take her ourselves.
Brent and Heidi took our other kids home for a sleepover... and this is the 5th
time in a year they have kept our kids during a medical emergency!
As we pulled out of the subdivision, we passed two blaring
ambulances and a firetruck, but we just kept driving, at every stoplight
leaning back to make sure our daughter was still alive. She was staring quietly
out the window taking quick shallow breaths, but her color had returned.
At the hospital we were seen immediately. An x-ray of her
lungs showed that we had been very lucky. But the doctor said he did see a
little streaking and wanted us transferred to Scottish Rite just to be safe.
Another crisis quickly arose when they told us they would be putting an IV in
our 18-month-old’s hand and the driving 45 minutes while Debra rode up front.
All I could imagine was as a pair of bullish EMT’s driving on stone-faced while
my daughter screamed her way through her second major life trauma that day and her mother sat captive in the front unable to help or comfort her. More panic, a hold out, a thick AMA
(“against medical advice”) waiver thrust toward me by a tearful nurse with the
threat of an uninsurable hospital bill to follow, another meeting with the
drivers, a negotiation, and finally we caved. Then came an IV without anesthetic.
This took some time as nurses searched for a vein on Juniper chubby hand, traumatizing both Juniper and her compassionate but helpless mother. But
thankfully, the ride itself was calm and Juniper quietly watched cartoons the
whole way.
Scottish Rite is a great hospital, but nurses, doctors,
admission, billing, and any other number of employees poked, prodded, and asked
the same questions 5 times until 4AM when we all collapsed from sheer
exhaustion and slept for 5 hours. The next day, things looked better. A social
worker making his rounds was less antagonistic than we feared and the doctor
gave us a clean bill of health. After lunch, we were released, bedraggled and
still in shock, but grateful. So grateful.
When we came home another shock awaited us. In the flurry of
the last couple days, we had forgotten about Annabel’s two bunnies, who now lay
in their cage cold, dead, and dehydrated. I was sick and actually cried a
little as I walked their little corpses back into the woods behind our house.
It was just one more reminder that life is fragile and one inattentive move can
take it away forever. It was only my friend’s hyper-vigilant head count that
saved my daughters life and it was our neglect (understandable though it may
be) that killed the rabbits. “This can never happen again,” I thought to
myself.
One positive side of the whole experience (besides a resolve
to be more vigilant) was a much stronger bond with my daughter and with my
whole family in general. People talk about meeting their child for the first
time as a life-changing experience. They talk about a love they never knew they
had flooding in to their hearts and sustaining them as parents throughout their
children’s lives. That’s not my experience. When I first met my kids, my
feelings were awe, adoration, tenderness, and pride. But love has crept in
slowly over the course of dozens of sleepless nights, toxic diapers, temper
tantrums, tender snuggles, and moments I almost lost them. As I’m stretched
beyond myself as a parent into those powerless spaces, my adoration of my kids
turns into real compassion (literally translated, “suffering with”), real love.
In my last post, I talked about reading the lectionary as a
helpful spiritual practice. It does a good job shepherding me through scripture
in a slow, methodical way and enriches my spiritual life in ways that don’t
require me to have a monastic life, lots of emotional energy, or theological
profundity. Well yesterday after the whole hospital experience, I plopped down
to read that day’s lectionary reading. It took me to an interesting passage:
David grieves the death of his son, Absalom.
In the story, Absalom attempts a coup against his father and
raises an army to fight and dethrone him. Though it was the ultimate betrayal, David’s
fatherly heart moved him to order the commander of his army, “be gentle for my
sake with the young man Absalom.” Probably seen by his troops as a sign of the
king’s weakness, 10 young men disregard the order, surround Absalom (whom they
find defenseless and alone in the forest) and kill him in cold blood. So the
battle was won but David weeps bitterly over the loss of his son. Though 10
young men saw only a betrayal and the need to right a wrong, the king saw the
loss of a son and cried out “Oh Absalom. Absalom, my son. If only I had died instead of you!”
I’ve got great kids and none of them are trying to overthrow
me (though some days I may dispute that) but David’s love is striking. 10 years
ago, the story was compelling, but maybe a bit confusing to me. Today I’m a
step closer to getting it. Life is precious, a tremendous gift that is so
easily taken away. And so much stronger than a life of vision and impact and legacy is a
life full of love for family and friends, even strangers and enemies. Love makes
you vulnerable. Love opens you to pain. Love makes you look fragile and
foolish. And given the choice between the fragile old king (the prodigal’s
father) and the strong young men... Let’s just say my existential taste buds
are changing.
