Even though I turned off the comments on my last post, the outpouring of emails, phone calls, messages on twitter, has been overwhelming. I turned off the comments because I didn't want anyone to feel pressure to say anything. I turned off the comments because sometimes it's just good to say what you need to say and be done with it, expecting nothing in return. But that isn't to say that the messages from all of you that have still reached me, haven't touched me deeply, because they have.
If you ever question the goodness and care of people, the relationships that have been forged through blogging, I can attest to the fact that both of these things run strong and true.
The trip to Hopkins with Mary was eye-opening and reassuring. I left feeling nothing but impressed with the care and concern of the doctors, with the way they communicate with each other and respect what each one brings to the table. You know that you are in good hands.
Again, sparing the details, and after much back and forth with the doctors we are going to take a cautious, but relaxed approach to what has been going on with her. All those difficult words and procedures are going to be put on the back burner, hopefully never to be brought up again, if the course of action we are taking right now takes care of the problems at hand.
They were optimistic. Cautious, concerned, but optimistic that we didn't need to jump in the deep waters of diseases and treatments.
Again, I cannot say it enough, thank you. I hope that I haven't worried you all too much, but frankly, I was worried. All those possibilities and probabilities were a bit daunting to think about. But I feel good about where we are now.
Sitting in the crowded waiting room of the Hopkins Children's Clinic, one can't help but be overwhelmed. I found myself catching eyes with other mothers, filling out forms, juggling babies on laps, pulling entertainment out of our bags of snacks, crayons and coloring books. They were looks of curiosity — why are you here? of understanding — we're going through something too. I sat in my seat and watched a mother testing blood sugar on one child and dolling out snacks, and filling a syringe and giving a shot in the arm of another child sitting in the stroller beside her. I went to the bathroom where a mother had every stall filled. Her son with no arm below the elbow, a toddler waiting patiently on the changing table, another in the other stall. And she was juggling it all with grace and patience, and even had the energy left to joke with me about taking up all the room.
As we were leaving, Dan said to me, "It is amazing how well we can adapt." How suddenly when faced with something difficult that we think we could never or would never handle, we do. You look across the room at another mother and say, "I could never do what she does." And yet, if you needed to, you would and you could.
I was thankful to walk out of that clinic with answers. With a good outlook for the future. With an end in sight. But I was also impressed, strengthened and inspired by the families that surrounded me in that waiting room.