Some years ago, my mother in law lay in a coma, following a devastating stroke. The amount of bleeding in her brain was not survivable. Her brainwaves showed no response beyond the most minimal blips in sync with her heartbeat and respiration, as her body attempted to maintain the vessel from which her soul was slowly fading. Each attempt to help her, resulted in more complications: the PICC line for IV fluids, medications, and TPN feeding ended up becoming infected and had to be removed. The gastric tube which was then surgically implanted into her stomach for tube feedings instead caused reflux of the nutritional supplement into her lungs and resulted in pneumonia. She no longer had a swallow reflex, and any attempt to ease a few drops of water into her parched mouth would have immediately been aspirated into her lungs. Her skin, rendered fragile by dehydration, broke down easily merely from the pressure of her bones against the soft bed, and started to form the earliest stages of bedsores. To watch this wonderful woman become more and more damaged by the very steps meant to sustain her was agonizing.
After consultation with her doctors, and with her family, the difficult decision was made to let her go, rather than inflicting any more damage in futile attempts to delay her passing. My husband had to sign the Do Not Resuscitate form; he was the eldest son, and his father was suffering from end stage Alzheimer's disease, and had only the barest understanding of what was happening to his wife of 50 years. The anguish of this responsibility tore at my husband's soul, and even years later, he finds it hard to forgive himself for not finding some way to save her.
She came under the care of some wonderful Hospice nurses, who cared for her and for her loved ones also. As we kept an around the clock vigil by her bedside, her nurses showed their compassion time and time again, by treating her with the utmost dignity and respect, and by keeping us informed of every change, no matter how small. She was now receiving only pain medications via the gastric tube, with enough water to wash them down, as well as medications to attempt to control the seizures that constantly wracked her body as the swelling in her brain put more and more pressure on her brainstem. We stayed by her side, and we supported her husband as he held her hand and pleaded with her to awaken.
She reached a plateau, where it seemed the smallest change in her condition would bring death, but she hovered there for several days, neither improving, nor worsening. One of her nurses said, "She may be waiting for permission to let go. The love and worry that she has for her family may be causing her to resist passing on. Maybe, if you talk to her and tell her it is ok, she may feel at peace to go on." What a hard thing that is; how frightening it can be, to encourage someone to leave all ties with her earthly life, and step forward into the unknown. Our own pain and grief, and our own fears of the unknown, made this seem an insurmountable leap of faith.
And then, in the darkness of the night, I understood. It IS the ultimate leap of faith, when we summon the courage to let go of all ties in our earthly life, and venture into the unknown. If we believe in God, and the salvation Jesus has given to us all, we know that Heaven awaits with perfect peace. Our minds may accept this, but our hearts are all too human, and the fear still binds us with reluctance.
I did a lot of thinking that night, and my thinking revolved around my children. There have been several times when our daughters have faced pain and fear that they could not understand. When Joy was seven years old, she had a lengthy illness, and it was discovered that she had an abcessed lymph node in her little neck, the size of a plum; it was putting so much pressure on her cranial nerves that her head was twisted upward and back, her neck stiffened by the inflammation of the nerves; the pressure was enough to displace her trachea so far from the normal midline that she was at risk for having respiratory obstruction.
Her pediatrician discussed with us the need to perform a spinal tap, to see if she had meningitis. This would require putting a needle between the delicate little vertebrae of her spine, and puncturing the membranes that surrounded her cerebral spinal fluid, in order to draw of several vials of fluid for testing. Joy was frightened, and cried, begging to be taken home. There are no words to describe my anguish that I could not pick up my child and take her far away from this frightening place. But it was vital to her treatment to be able to confirm or deny meningitis. So I held her closely, my cheek against the warm satin of her little cheek, and I spoke sotly to her. I told her that I knew she was afraid, and that I wanted nothing more than to take her home, but this was a necessary thing.
There is no way that a seven year old can understand viruses, bacteria, or that a painful thing must be done for her own good. But we shared between us a lifetime of love, and protection; she might not know WHY something had to be, but she put her faith in me, that I would be with her, holding her closely, supporting her with my love. The trust that was gained over the course of her short life, in the warmth and love that surrounded her, was sufficient to calm her, and she lay quietly in my arms as her little back was prepared for the invasive procedure.
The doctor asked if I wished to leave the room, but the answer to that was a resounding NO. My world, at that moment, centered around my child, and nothing could have induced me to leave her alone in her fear. She had calmed following my promise to stay with her, and when the doctor scrubbed her back with the sponge applicator of betadine, she giggled at the coldness and tickling of the sponge. And my daughter, so small and fragile, held still during the procedure, uttering not one whimper, and showing far more courage than most grown men could have mustered.
I have never been so humbled as in that moment, when my child showed her unwavering faith in my love for her. I believe that is the first time I had any real understanding of the love God has for all of His children, and how much He suffers when we face pain and trials. We don't have the understanding to know why bad things must happen, and why God cannot shield us from the harshness of life, but through our faith in Him, we know that He holds us close and offers us comfort, so that we never truly suffer alone.
Joy did not have meningitis. After a 17 day stay in the hospital, including 2 operations to her neck, a short stay in PICU, and many doses of medication and IV fluid later, she slowly began to recover her health, and we were able to bring her home once again. To this day, many years later, my heart fills with love and humility at the faith she showed. In her innocence, she has served as a role model to me; surely, in the smallest of children, we see the steadfast trust and love that we may safely entrust to our Heavenly Father, and a leap of faith brings us into the comforting arms of our Father.
My children have often humbled me with their faith and trust. When Mary was about 5 years old, we were at Disney World. The kids wanted to ride Space Mountain, a high speed rollercoaster which sped and twisted through the darkness of the huge building it was enclosed within. The coasters were loud; the lights flashed brightly, then went pitch back repeatedly, and the shrill screams of happy...........and not so happy...riders punctuated the din. The line was long, and as we slowly drew closer and closer to the ride entrance, we began to see grown men and women losing their nerve, and ducking below the roped barricade to escape to the exit. I was having some anxiety myself; my little pixie was just barely tall enough to be allowed on the ride. As a matter of fact, I think she squeaked past the measuring stick only because of wearing thick socks and having her windblown hair pouffed about her head. Were we making a mistake, bringing her on this ride? Would she find it traumatic, rather than exhilirating? Should I pull her out of line, and walk with her through the exit, to await her father and sister after their ride?
As we got nearer and nearer to the coaster car entrance, she showed no signs of anxiety; her brown eyes shone with wonder at the different sights and sounds which surrounded her, and the excitement of the moment. The coaster cars (in those days) were arranged so that two couples rode to a car; the smaller person would sit between the outstretched legs of the larger rider, and seat belts secured us all into place. I rode with Joy (aged 8) sitting before me, and as I pulled the safety belt WAY tight to make it fit around her little body, I was also watching Mary as she was buckled into position in front of David. As the coaster began to move slowly to the first launching, she looked up into her father's face, and asked simply, "Daddy, is it safe?" His arms wrapped around her and held her against his body, and he spoke softly in her ear "It is okay; I have you and I won't let you fall." The roller coaster was just as high speed and high thrills and chills as advertised, and I think I ....MAY........have screamed a few times. But looking over my shoulder, I saw Mary, her father's arms wrapped tightly around her, lifting her little arms high above her head and screaming....."FASTER, FASTER!!!!"
It was an exuberant little girl who debarked from the coaster, her big brown eyes alight, and her hand already tugging to lead us back into the line to do it again. All around her, adults were shamefaced about chickening out, as this little pint sized thrill junkie raced to stand in line again. Once again, I felt humbled by the love and trust a child places in a loving parent. With the complete confidence that she was being held safely in her father's arms, she was willing to brave the scarey unknown, knowing that she was in the keeping of one who has loved her and protected her since well before her birth.
As I sat in the dim light at my mother in law's bedside, these two memories played themselves through my mind, and I realized the leap of faith she would be facing, and that we were going to have to make with her. I knew that despite the pain and loss we would suffer in letting her go, that she was passing into the arms of the One who has loved her and protected her all of her life. The trust of a beloved child does not fear the leap of faith into the unknown, because she is never beyond her Father's love and protection. We cried, and we prayed, and we encircled her in our love, holding her hands, and we told her to not worry about us; to go in peace. Within the hour, her breathing slowly became fainter and fainter, and I was sure that somewhere she was asking, "Daddy, is it safe?" and she heard the loving answer, "Yes, My child. I am holding you in my arms; you can let go." And in the stillest hour of the night, this wonderful, amazing woman left those who mourned her, but willingly clung to the One who has loved her from first, to last, and always.
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