I think God is trying to tell me something, and maybe I am hard of hearing.
Because today = mentally exhausting.
Tyler's tumor appears to be growing, so we pack up and head to the hospital for a new scan. Tyler begins to cry as soon as we put him in his wheelchair. I think he knows where we are going and he doesn't like it one bit. My oldest daughter comes with me this time since my mom's back is out.
Good thing, too. Tyler throws up five times today and she is indispensable.
Although they interact as siblings - my kids don't normally have anything to do with Ty's personal care needs - I think they need to have a regular childhood - well, as much as possible anyway.
But, lately, she (my oldest girl) has been asking to help with his tube feedings and watches us do his port care and administer IV medicine doses. She also saved the day when Ty called it quits on the way home from the library, so I knew she was up for it.
At Radiology, the staff loves her and they even let her run the CT Scan, pushing buttons to record the latest tumor growth. The head radiologist tells her to come back in 7 years so she can take over the tech's job. She is a regular little nurse.
I know there is something going on with Ty, and it is a little bit scary. He is sweating buckets and doing his version of a moose call - at least that's what it sounds like when you yell at your mom and your voice is changing.
When we arrive at clinic, an infant is in respiratory distress. Nurses are running back and forth the way they do when a patient, an infant, is teetering on the high wire between life here and that other place - with nasal canullas, some sort of 'stat' cart and the smallest backboard I've ever seen. He is sent to the PICU for angels to watch over.
Later one of the nurses talks with her about how she enjoys seeing kids and getting to know them. She tells her that a lot of them get better, although lately (I stop her before she talks about death)...not so much. The doctor comes in, listens to Ty's lungs for a long time and then mentions that there's a backlog in Radiology - so no scan results today.
I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I do not like this "waiting for the other shoe to drop" business. I stink at it. We give Ty something to help with the nausea and go home.
Home. My ears are tired and worn out from too much hospital noise, too many moose calls, and too much pecking from kids needing me as soon as I step in the door.
I step outside, the kids following me still - peck, peck, pecking at my ears. I wander in the garden, breathing in earthy scents and pulling at bits of weeds. Therapy.
One by one, the children leave, go inside, as the wind picks up. The thunder rolls in from across the lake. I lay in the grass under the trees, my back pressing into the cool softness, and study the sky. Black clouds advance, tossing the tree tops like so many peacock feathers, branches bending low to scrape the grass. They thrash about - the leaves whip, whip, whipping at the sky. I inhale, deeply. Amidst all this turmoil I notice something.
I notice that the trunk stands firm, rooted to the earth, while the branches sway with the wind, carving light and air rhythmically to music only the trees hear. The trunk, branches, and leaves, one undulating form harvesting strength from the violent forces of nature.
People are not so different from trees.
I listen, and the wind whispers........