My scar has started to fade. They said it would, with time. Alder has scars, too, on his hands and feet and hips; his skin was so underdeveloped at birth that even diapers could damage. I had hoped our scar collecting days had gone, but here we are: I’m writing across from my son’s cot in PICU, where he is laying, unconscious, an iv in his arm, a central line in his groin, a feeding tube to his stomach and another down his throat to do his breathing for him. We left the NICU five months ago. And scars do fade, but they never leave you—the nicu never leaves you. Though all these old scars cry of battles won, I’m sitting here wondering if we will win the war. I don’t only mean, “Will my son live?” but also, “Will I live? Will I ever be anything more than busted and bruised?” I am learning to live broken. Rolling with punches that won't stop coming.
There was a time when I thought my life would be mostly comfortable and within my control. Now I know better. And, while it’s more painful, it’s deeper and more beautiful. I’m living the kind of life now where I see a photograph of all three of my babies in one frame, and I know to linger there a second longer. I’m living the kind of life where I savor my baby’s smile and leave the laundry, because the laundry will be there later, but my baby might not.
This is a life that holds no expectations. This is a life that sees easy as exceptional, undeserved. I’m learning to accept that the Lord gives and He takes away, and that He ever gave at all is extraordinary.
Alder is not my own.
Alder is not my own.
Alder is not my own.
I’m thinking maybe if I write it out, over and over and over again, the words will sink in deep enough to hurt a little less, to stay a little longer. Lord, I believe. Help with my unbelief. I’ve had the nicu in my rear view mirror and forgotten so much of what I learned there. Again I feel the gentle tugging, that reorienting of my heart. When my life looks so wrecked, He is still there loving me. Loving my son.
Alder is not my own.