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. 🩷
The sequel was my favorite 