Processing Last Year (2)
Here's what I wrote last year:
I start to get up out of bed and grab a purple skirt, and throw a t-shirt on. A random thought hits me - 'glad I'll be home in a bit as I shouldn't really go out in public looking like a disheveled trash collector wearing whatever I gleaned from a dumpster dive' (no dig for dumpster divers here! They're probably my tribe!).
Sam offers to go instead. I tell Sam he can go to bed since he's tired. Last minute before I leave I see Sam up - some random impulse compelled him to come with me. I let him drive. 'Just go to North Avenue. Then go north on Gary - that's what Timo said. He said we'd find him there a little way up.' And find him we did.
First we saw some bright lights. We figured a cop car had likely stopped. But there were so many. We didn't count them all. The road was cordoned off. A cop was re-directing traffic - no cars could head north on this road. We pull up to the cop and say 'our son is back there.' He waves us through and we pull to the side and park. I start to feel uncertain. There are so many lights. I see half Timo's motorcycle in the middle of the road. There are bits and pieces everywhere. I don't even register what this might mean. A split second thought tells me this might be very bad. But then I say to myself, 'Let's not imagine fearful things - outcomes that may not happen...just stay in the moment.' Yes, I have constant brain chatter going on in my head at all times. I talk to myself, I listen to myself. There are parts of me that are wise and there is a prayerful part that tells God everything. I tell God, 'What's with all this shrapnel? What happened to my boy? You'd better be right here with me. You are right here with me. I know it. But this is so strange. I should be going to bed. Why am I on the street after 10 p.m.? What are you doing, God?'
Sam takes hold of my hand and I feel like we are walking into a movie scene, two characters, broken and limping through life, with sudden solidarity, unity, strength, and peace. The lights feel trapped in humid air, and I notice a slight breeze and I'm thankful it isn't sweltering. A cop starts talking to us. We walk as in a dream. A hazy, shady, dark, pulsating dream. The flashing lights keep a steady rhythm and I wish they weren't so bright. They shock my senses and I feel it might be worse than I know. I just want to pick up my boy. Why are there so many vehicles?
The cop asks us some information. I can't remember his date of birth. That was my first clue. Why can't a mother remember her son's birthdate? In a moment like that, I notice I'm not quite tracking anything that's going on. I don't feel panic, sadness, terror, or shock. I simply look for my kid. Where is he?
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I haven't even begun to chronicle the ways we were supported and encouraged even in the midst of our darkest days. The day after Timo's surgery, Daryle, a pastor from a church we don't even attend, drove the hour East to the city to visit us and Timo in hospital. All of us have busy, packed lives. And sometimes your busy, packed life is put on hold and everyone else's busy, packed life goes on as they planned. But there are those who take time to suspend their plans, and interrupt their schedule, to drive an hour each way to visit your kid who is broken and stuck in a prison of a body that is wracked with pain, confined to a bed in a strange building far away.
A hospital visit isn't even necessarily about what you say, or what you pray, or what flowers or balloons or treats you bring. It is a welcome distraction. It spoke to us when first Daryle, then Will, a pastor from the Church we do attend, and then Debi, Timo's piano teacher all showed up. Timo had a visitor each day. For us, and for Timo, it is a way we could experience being seen. It is hard to be seen in your suffering. It is so miserable to be in both physical and emotional pain, and it is hard to allow others into this suffering. But it lightens the load. It feels less...alone. No-one could bear the pain for Timo. No-one could un-break my heart. No-one could stifle the grating in my soul. A visitor cannot fix anything. But they come with two eyes, a heart of compassion, a witness to our suffering. Having others see us in our time of need was a strange comfort and blessing in a way that cannot be substituted by anything else.
Monday, Sept 4 was Labour Day - a holiday that meant Sam was home from work and Priscilla had the day off from classes. Sam had spent the night with Timo on Saturday night. Priscilla volunteered to spend the night with Timo on Sunday night. This gave Sam and I the chance to collaborate and re-group. We began to launch into management mode. This is my area of great struggle. I'm a space-cadet when it comes to logistics and planning. Details do not become me. I can't keep structure straight in my mind. Sam and I sat and prioritized and processed what we need to do - changes we need to make at home, to accommodate a wheelchair, bathroom access etc. Sam decided to stay with Timo for tonight (Monday night). Drove back to downtown with Andrew and Hannah and Priscilla so they could all be with Timo. Also swung by the airport to pickup a friend. They think they can discharge Timo tomorrow if all goes well the next 24 hours. They are saying to expect a 6-12 month recovery process, and perhaps longer. Lord, have mercy - on Timo, yes, but on each of us. Sam had to call and tell Caleb away at college what happened to his brother. How is it to receive that kind of phonecall and be so far away?
Paul (my brother) and Deidre (his wife) came by. They handed us gift cards from them and my sister, Cathy, for gas and take out meals. We have been burning through so much gas going an hour each way to the city. We are carried by generous gifts and thoughtful help at just the right time.
Tuesday, September 5: Timo comes home from Lurie Children's Hospital. An hour or so after getting home, Timo wonders if there will be anymore visitors now that he's home. I said, 'Probably not.' 5 minutes later, a friend from our small group, Andrew, shows up with his family heirloom recipe Banana Bread that he's famous for. This first visitor at home brightened Timo's mood some. Later he asked me, "Will you cook some real food for me?" I guess he was tired of hospital food. He never asks me to cook anything. (Mr. Independent, "I-can-do-it-myself"). I go in the kitchen and whip up some pineapple meatballs and rice. Myra, our dear neighbor, also stopped by. Every person in our presence is a blessed distraction from the ongoing pain and struggle. The Lord sends His angels. And sometimes they bring Banana Bread.
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