New Every Morning

Jason was pushing the cart yesterday in the grocery store when we paused to grab a bottle of mustard. Another customer stopped to greet Jason, and asked how he'd been doing. Neither of us recognized the woman, but Jason was pleasant as always. Her next question caught me off guard when she asked him, "How is your mom doing?" Jason smiled and replied that she's doing well. 

It has been difficult navigating Jason through the recent loss of his mom. It was the single most heartbreaking experience I've watched him go through. I tried to find the right balance between protecting him and including him in the days that followed. When we woke on the morning of her service, he asked the same question he does each day, "What do we have to do today?" He had already forgotten the grief of the previous night, about the hours spent at the funeral home for visitation. 

Because of his memory loss, each day is new for Jason. I can't bring myself to remind him continually that his mom is gone. In his mind, all is still well in his world. He hasn't tried to call her, or suggested we visit since he doesn't remember how much time has passed since their last contact. 

After Jason's brain injury, it was clear that his earliest memories were mostly intact. He still remembers the boundless love he received from his mom. Jason remembers her telling everyone that he was her baby, even after he was a grown man. These are the memories that stayed.

Of course, there is also a boy living here who does remember this profound loss. This boy remembers everything. He remembers a grandma who covered his entire face with kisses whenever she saw him. He remembers their special New Year's Eve parties together at her house, when they drank sparkling juice from fancy glasses. He knows that her face lit up each and every time she saw him and exclaimed, "Eli!"  I have assured him that he can talk about his grandma any time he wishes, since I am missing her, too.

I often question myself about what is best for Jason. I have no way of knowing if he would eventually remember if I were to tell him often. It is difficult feeling as though I'm keeping things from him, no matter the intent.
"Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness." (Lamentations 3:22)

Love Always Hopes

I can still clearly remember falling back against the wall outside the ICU, my knees almost too weak to hold me up. The doctor was blunt and didn't soften his words. My sister stood beside me as we struggled to comprehend what he was saying. He told us there was nothing else they could do for my 33 year old husband, and that he would not survive. Through my haze of confusion and shock, I asked how much time we still had. The doctor coldly told us, "I am not God, and this is not a soap opera...there is no way to answer that." He did indicate that we should summon my husband's family to the hospital so they might say goodbye.
I passed the long hours of that night sitting beside my husband's bed, willing him to stay. Early the next morning, another doctor began her shift. She had been with us during the past several months, trying to determine the cause of my husband's symptoms with tests and biopsies. Her presence immediately brought a sense of calmness to me. I searched her face, and quietly pleaded with her to give me hope. She hesitantly told me that since he had made it through the night, she could offer me a small percent of a chance. A short time later, I witnessed an exchange between her and the doctor from the previous night. He must have questioned her, since I heard her whisper that she'd just wanted to give me some hope.
I fiercely clung to this hope for the next two days. Just as it seemed my husband was on the road to recovery, he experienced a life-altering setback. After going several days without sleep, I'd finally given in to my weariness. My sister had fashioned a little pallet of blankets on the ICU waiting room floor, and insisted that I try to relax and close my eyes. I quickly fell into a deep sleep, so failed to hear the "code blue, ICU" that rang out over the intercom at 3am.  I was gently woken by a nurse and a hospital chaplain, who explained that something had gone wrong with my husband's ventilator tube. The magnitude of the situation hit me when the chaplain asked if she could call anyone to come be with me. I have no memory of that walk to my husband's room, but remember the profound stillness when I entered.
Hope became my loyal companion in the months that followed. Together we faced the words: brain injury, unresponsive, seizures, low brain activity, coma. Hope seemed to waver at times in some of those who were caring for my husband. One day as I sat at his bedside, I heard one nurse ask another, "How long are they going to let him lie there like that?" During the two weeks my husband spent in a coma, it was often difficult to maintain hope. Hope seemed absent in the small room where the doctor took my father and me. With tears on her face, she asked me to sign a DNR (do not resuscitate) form, explaining that she couldn't imagine my husband enduring more trauma if something else occurred. I depended on the hope I received from my faith, as well as the unwavering support of friends and family during those darkest days.
We felt immense relief when my husband showed signs of coming back to us. The doctor had continually assured me, "He's still in there"...but there were times when I was uncertain. My husband responded with recognition upon seeing the faces of his mother and siblings, but his reaction to me was not as strong. Those first days after waking, when he looked at me, it seemed that he didn't remember me. Eventually, when the nurse asked my husband about his wife, his eyes flew to me. When he was finally able to speak, his first word was the name of our son, who was seven years old at the time.
Hope stayed with us during the next four weeks in the ICU, and through each complication that arose. After more than two months at our local hospital, my husband was transferred to a long-term care hospital to begin steps towards rehabilitation. Hope was a bit fleeting during his 6 week stay at this facility. It seemed as though we were unable to make forward progress, and were all beginning to wear around the edges. Hope returned when he was finally transferred to a third hospital for rehabilitation.
After spending five months in hospitals, my husband was able to return home. We slowly adjusted to the changes he'd undergone, both in personality and physically. By the time we became accustomed to his wheelchair, he was ready to transition to a walker. We rejoiced the day we were able to retire the walker to a corner in the garage. During his hospital stay, and in those first months at home, it was often difficult to recognize the familiar traits of the husband I'd known. I'd first fallen in love with his quick wit and joyful spirit. After all he'd endured, I found myself wondering if that man was lost to us. When we learned that his short-term memory loss would likely be permanent, we struggled to adapt.
Thankfully, hope proved to be incredibly resilient. It stayed close by as my husband made tremendous steps in his journey back to us. In time, our home was once again filled with his laughter. He was able to forge a strong relationship with our son again, through shared silly jokes and fierce games of checkers. Hope carried us through from those days full of chaos and despair to this place of calm contentment.

(I wrote this today for submission to a book that publishes short inspirational true stories)