The Art of Humility

So, I was talking about humility the other day.  And it is an art and a promise and truly difficult and truly humbling.  I've had many experiences that have brought me to a level of humility that I now have, and I suspect that I will still have to hand over more of my pride and even more of my pride before I am done with my walk here on the bluish-greenish-brownish-smoggy ball. 

You see, being Lucy's mom has been extremely humbling.  In fact, I couldn't actually put words to it until now, not until someone else was kind enough to prime the pump for me.  This blog post by Dr. Karin really made me feel like she knew exactly how I had felt, and still often feel, about what it's like to be Lucy's mom.  Especially this passage:

I never knew fear until I put my child’s life in someone else’s hands, out of my sight, out of my control, and beyond the swinging doors of a room filled with masked healers with gloved hands.
I never knew faith until all I could hold onto were the reassurances of the nurse who took him away in her arms, the spoken confidence of the surgeon who promised he knew what he was doing, the words in the Bible that I had memorized in my youth … and the prayers of so many people, some family, some I did not even know, who loved my baby boy and wanted him healed.
I never knew the love of God until I realized that He was okay with the fact that I was angry, exhausted, confused, and petrified and unable to pray for a time when my newborn was first taken from me, but He waited right there by Hoyte’s bedside with me anyway, loving me all the way and waiting for me to come back.
I never knew gratitude until I saw the surgeon walk through the swinging door of the hospital waiting room, removing his mask to reveal a reassuring smile.
I never knew joy until I watched my child recover body and soul from infections, procedures and surgeries and then one day finally saw his smile again … even brighter than before.
I never knew closeness until I realized that God indeed had been tucked up beside each of us every single hour. And when I regained my strength and was able to reach back up to Him with a renewed spirit, His voice sounded closer than before, and the warmth of his compassion flooded my heart with indescribable blessing.
I never knew anything more certain than what I know today for sure: Our little Hoyte is a miracle, and he is HERE FOR A REASON.
And so is your child.

You see, when Lucy was first hospitalized, I had to actually give up being her mother.  I couldn't hold her or comfort her or even feed her anymore.  I pumped loads of milk that we poured down the sink.  I literally could do nothing for my infant daughter.  I couldn't save her.  I couldn't help her.  I had to hand her off to strangers, and hope for the best.  And I told people I prayed -- I tell people I prayed, and I think on some level I did.  But the inside of me looked like this:

I had to lean on the assurances and the help of strangers.  I had arrived at the hospital with the clothing on my back, with my purse, and with nothing else.  The nurses brought me food, found me soap and contact solution and a cell phone charger.

For the first time, I learned what it meant to put aside my pride and allow people to really help me.  But my lessons weren't over. 

When I returned to work, and the syndrome grew worse, I learned what it meant to have a good boss who was really there for me to help me.

I learned how to lean on friends, and talk to them, and tell them when I was sad or scared.  I learned what I really needed and what I wanted.  And through it all, the people have come back with love and support beyond what I have imagined.  My old pride has taken a beating -- because as I realized that first time, I am not enough. 

I have to accept more for Lucy.  She needs more.  She has assistance from the state.  She has a team of therapists and nurses and doctors.  I've slept in a Ronald McDonald House, and when I could, I gave back.  I've eaten the food given to me by complete strangers, and brought food back.  When se almost died last Christmas, the outpouring of support and love buoyed us up.  And so we work very hard to be anchors and pillars for those we see who are sad. 

Charity is not the strong helping the weak -- it is a symbol of infinity, in which we see how God's love shows for all of us.  The more humble I am, the more I can love the greater mass of humanity, because it allows me to see better how to love and to accept more love so as to give it.  Infinitely, infinitely, infinitely. 

Infinity.

Back so soon?

Ahhh.  Here we are back in the hospital.  It's weird to not enter through the Emergency Department.  To drive here in our own car.  To have to wrestle a toddler down for an EEG who's wide awake and not totally doped on diazepam.

Okay, I've done the last one a few times.  But still, not for a while.

Anyway, we're in for a visit to the Epilepsy Monitoring Unit.  Apparently, this is a level 4 EMU, which is probably pretty good, except that I didn't know there were levels and, well, let's just say that this is far superior to the last few stays we've had at EMUs.  See, once they hook you up to the wires, they hand you a button (or, in this case, hand your mom a button) and tell you to push it if something happens. 

Lucy got ahold of the button and pushed it. 

At the Shitty Hospital, where we've always done our EEGs up until now, that was it.  You push the button, there's a mark on the monitor, and the doctor looks at that point and says "seizure or no seizure."

At THIS hospital, when you push the button, an alarm goes off at the nurse's station, the lights in your room come on, the TV goes off, and an EEG tech and two nurses run into your room.  IMMEDIATELY.

To say that Lucy and I were not expecting this is an understatement.  We were preparing to EVACUATE.