Tomorrow marks three weeks since surgery and tomorrow morning she returns to school.
I cried hard when I wheeled her white marbled suitcase down the hall out the double doors on the peds unit, my daughter being wheeled out in a wheelchair by a staff member. Our lives would never be the same for many reasons. My child was returning with a new back that would change her quality of life. I felt so much gratitude but also so much absolute sadness and guilt as we wheeled past the others’ rooms. The sweet second grader was waiting on further tests, after inconclusive test results, so she could start treatment. The 14-year old’s parents were saying their final goodbyes to their handsome, athletic son. The 16-year old girl in the room next to us was supposed to get to go home the night before, for the first time since February, but her bloodwork indicated otherwise and she didn’t get to leave. All of these parents were living a nightmare as we just wheeled on out, my husband waiting in the suburban at the curb. I have cried every day since when I think about that moment. Many families are there off and on for years, but our stay wasn’t even a week. We would return home to school and jobs and laundry and chaotic schedules and things I hope to never again take for granted.
We were surrounded in love and prayer our entire time there, I felt it every second. We always say a prayer every night that ends with, “Help us to help others in all of the ways that we can.” For some reason, it just feels a lot different after our time at Mayo.
So I write this for two reasons:
I will never be able to thank everyone enough for every text, every prayer, every comment to remind us that they are in our corner. She almost didn’t get to have her surgery, but thanks to friends, prayers and guardian angels, she did. I saw firsthand the difference a person can make in the life of another.
Please keep the prayers coming to those we left behind at Mayo. They are working and they are felt there. I don’t know how to explain it.
I often hear people say “Hug your babies a little tighter,” when someone endures a terrifying experience. Yeah, we should, but we can do a lot more than that. We can cover them in prayers and add them to prayer chains. We can send care packages or $10 coffee cards. We can make meals to leave in the freezer. We can send a text that doesn’t say “I’m sorry,” but rather “Tell me something you need.”
I’ve spent the past couple of weeks more appreciate of watching my healthy children play the sports they absolutely love. I have more patience and grace. I bought my middle child the specific bread she really loves for her school lunches, instead of just using what I had. I have been in awe of things I just didn’t notice before.
Thank you for your endless support the past few weeks, from our neighbors who made us dinner and the friends who checked in daily, we are so grateful to each and every one of you.
Please continue to wrap the peds floors at Mayo in prayers, too. 🩷
From the moment we walked in, I felt an energy that was unlike anything I had felt before. At the time, I couldn’t find the words for it. The security guards at the main entrance had kindly pointed us in the right direction. There were several people in the outdoor courtyard area, enjoying the beautiful morning. Most were just enjoying the sunlight on their face or deep in conversation with a loved one. Everyone outside appeared to be living in the moment, enjoying it. I thought about how I take for granted the luxury of going outside whenever you want to feel the sun on your face.
We quietly rode up the elevators to the 16th floor, pediatrics. I wanted to ensure that we would know exactly where to go later that afternoon when my daughter would have her imaging done. When we turned the corner from the elevator, I caught my breath as I saw the line waiting to check-in. The line was efficient and moved quickly, but patients kept lining up. The tears started to run down my face after only standing there a few minutes. I wasn’t the only mom who had lost sleep last night, I wasn’t the only one praying for the pre-authorization to go through or praying that today we would hear good news.
The waiting room was beautiful. The ceiling was glowing with different shade of blues and greens, one wall covered in artwork on glass that was lit up. Comfortable curvy couches filled the waiting room, full of families waiting. Bluey played on a TV in the corner, a dozen kids mesmerized with the episode. I remember thinking how wonderful it was that Bluey could be a distraction from reality. When it was finally our turn, I confirmed with the check-in desk that this would be where we would check in a few hours later. He greeted us with such compassion, I wasn’t sure if it was due to my tears or if this is just how he always was, because this was the nature of this job.
We rode the elevator back down in silence, both my girls and myself suddenly so much more aware of what this place is. We got off at the lobby, but then walked to the lower level. I had been told there are tunnels that attach the buildings, but again, it’s something you can’t wrap your mind around until you see it. As we walked, I wondered about the people we walked past. Many were being pushed in a wheelchair by a loved one. Sometimes the patient looked exhausted and sometimes the caregiver did. Some were walking and had to stop often to catch their breath, some had a loved one there who patiently waited for them. Others were seated in the cafeteria, waiting on a loved one to help bring them their tray.
I looked at facial expressions as we walked. So many had a look of weariness, but somehow a look of hope. If you’re at Mayo Clinic, you’re here because there is no one else in your region who can help you with what you need, and it’s as if it is written on everyone’s faces. It’s as if every person there knows how lucky they are to be there. I thought about how the stars aligned for us to get this appointment, as it almost didn’t happen. I thought about those who are still waiting to get the call for an appointment.
We navigated our way from the clinic to our hotel and then went to the mall, which I had promised my girls. I wondered how many other parents were there, shopping as a distraction from what you’re really there for. We didn’t stay as long as they wanted to, I was too paranoid about missing an appointment we had waited so long to get. I remember noticing how kind the cashiers were everywhere we went. Everything felt different in that town.
We made our way back to the clinic. I was sure that this late in the day the waiting room would be cleared out. We made our way back up to the 16th floor again. When we rounded the corner the line was even longer. There were newborn babies and there were teenagers and every age in between. Bluey was still playing in the corner with an audience just as captivated as the audience this morning. The parents in the waiting room had worry and exhaustion on their faces. Some were on their cellphones updating grandparents back home. Some were filling out paperwork. Some were just sitting quietly with their child, taking it all in. There was a little two-year old boy with the most beautiful blonde curls and a newborn baby girl making newborn grunts as she squirmed when her mom reached to pull her out of her car seat. I remember saying a prayer for them, that they would get to live long, healthy lives and do all the things that children hope and deserve to do.
After my daughter’s imaging appointment, we rode the elevator in silence with another family. The mood was not joyous and energetic. It’s a different feeling to ride an elevator with children who aren’t excited about the magic of it. I prayed for that little boy of that family and will always wonder about him.
A hard rain had set in and it was pounding against the windows, but you couldn’t hear it because a girl was playing the most beautiful song on the piano.
We made our way back through the clinic to our hotel and I thought about the PBS special I had watched last summer about the Mayo Brothers. We walked past the Hall of Benefactors. I wondered what inspired them to donate and if some had first been a patient or if this place had treated someone they loved. There were so many names listed in that hall and I was grateful for each and every one of them.
We dropped some things off at our hotel room and then explored the streets that surrounded Mayo. We ate at the Italian place on the corner and it was as wonderful as every review said it would be. There is something I will never forget about walking through that crowded restaurant – not one person was on their phone. Not. One. It appeared most of the patrons were Mayo patients. Some tables consisted of families and some consisted of people dining alone. Everyone appeared to be enjoying the company they sat with. Everyone was taking in the moment, grateful for it. There was no need to be scrolling social media or thinking about a different time or place, the moment we were in was everything we all wanted.
The next morning we woke up bright and early for our last appointment. Again, we were met with a line for the pediatric waiting room. Shortly after we sat down on the curvy green couch, a boy around my daughter’s age was wheeled up along side me by his dad. His mom joined them a few minutes later. He was wearing a faded grey cap, looking frail and exhausted. I remember distinctively thinking that whatever they were there for, if given the option, I’m sure they would trade patient charts in a second with us. I remember promising myself that whatever discussion we were about to have with our physician, I would be grateful that were there for just that. The boy’s mom started talking to him about his dog and their dog sitter. At first he tried to make a few jokes about his dog, but I noticed he was just too exhausted. I felt as if he was trying to put his parents’ worried minds to ease and I admired him for it. I thought about my own son who would had a baseball game the night before, 600 miles away. I thought about how a few days earlier, I had complained that soccer was too cold at 7:30 in the morning. I was suddenly so disgusted that I had ever taken for granted a moment of watching my healthy children play the sports they love. I remember in that moment promising I’ll sit in the snow or the rain or whatever it is, to watch my kids do their things. I prayed that in the near future, that boy will get to be doing whatever he loves, too. The moms in that waiting room wear a feeling I don’t know how to describe. You can feel it in the air.
I instantly loved the physician we had heard so much about. She was every bit as wonderful as I had heard. She gave us a great detail of information, always addressing my daughter first and foremost and checking throughout our consultation with any questions she may have. She was thorough and kind and encouraging. We left feeling nothing but gratitude to have this surgical option. I wondered if she knew she was the answer to this mother’s prayer and how grateful I was for her and whatever path led her to Mayo.
As we walked back through that waiting room, different families filled the couches. It wasn’t lost on me that I was likely one of the luckiest moms leaving there that day. As we turned the corner for the elevator, a family had just gotten on one. The mom put her hand, in the door to hold it for us. I could tell by the expressions on their faces that whatever news was discussed at their appointment didn’t seem to be the one of hope we had just had, yet the mom made sure the door wouldn’t close on us. We rode down in silence, both of us likely processing the morning we had just had.
As we made our way back to the lobby and to the tunnels our adjacent hotel, an adorable, big, white therapy dog was rolled over on his side, thrilled for the rubs he was getting by his admirers. Patients faces lit up seeing this sweet, fluffy dog. Whatever was on their minds moments earlier was temporarily set aside.
I was so surprised how the lobby could enclose so many people, yet not feel crowded at all. It was again rainy and gray outside, but the big, beautiful windows still made everything so bright. We grabbed a drink for the road, even the barista was kind. I realized that through every Mayo encounter we had, from food service to the physician, every one made us feel welcomed. It was as if everyone who worked there was wanting to say, “I know today is hard. How can I make it easier for you?”
On our almost 600-mile drive home, I thought a lot about the energy at Mayo Clinic and the feeling that surrounds you when you enter. The faces of caregivers and patients told so many stories, expressions that were weary but hopeful, but there was something else. It was love. It was a building full of people wanting more time for their loved one or wanting to improve their quality of life. It was a building full of physicians who are so passionate about modern medicine and the science that can give the world the best version of it. It was a waiting room full all day, every day, of moms who want to see their children run on the soccer field or play outside with their dog as they feel the sunshine on their face. It was a community of people who want to be in the moment with those that they love, those who are acutely aware that our days are not infinite.
The sequel was my favorite 