Strength Training

I'm a sprinter, not a long-distance runner. It's why I didn't think I'd be any good at backpacking, since once I hit a wall of exhaustion, I'd like the option of calling it quits. It's why I preferred Irish dance with its explosive bursts of fast movement to soccer and its game-long running. (Sorry, soccer-loving Super Husband. I'll be over here on the sidelines cheering you on.) But I'm getting an education in endurance lately that I thought I'd share.

As you probably figured out by now, this is a sports metaphor. I don't mean "sprinter" literally—I hate running. And while I've learned stamina is something to work toward in Irish dance, and backpacking is fantastic once you push yourself past "the wall," I never considered how hard it is to deal with long(ish)-term problems...especially when they involve your child.

Thankfully, I've never gone through a long, drawn-out illness myself. The longest I've puzzled through some health issue was about a year—until we finally figured out eight gallstones were responsible for the attacks I was experiencing. Gritted my teeth through surgery, recuperation, and done! That's what I call a sprint: a relatively short burst of trouble or illness that you push through to the other side.

I'm fairly good at putting my head down and racing to the other side of crisis. Whatever you tell me needs doing, no matter how painful, let's get it over with so we can get back to health and wholeness. But tell me something is wrong with my baby, ask me to put her through painful tests, daily medication, and then WAIT? Let the looming potential for surgery on her little body hang over my head for over half her life thus far? That's torture.

I wish that about five months ago, when Lyla was diagnosed with vesicoureteral reflux, that there'd been a very clear and prompt course of action. "She needs surgery to fix this now and after a few weeks she'll be healthy and growing normally." I could have managed that, I think. 

As it was, we had no choice but to manage. We managed the infections with daily antibiotics and decided to wait four months to see if she was one of the 10% with her severity of VUR who grow out of it. Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when we spent five hours at the hospital. A routine check of how she was handling medicine and how her kidneys were developing turned into a series of unexpected, uncomfortable tests and imaging. Even the spinal malformation we "ruled out" wasn't a 100% negative result because she should have had the ultrasound much younger. But no one ordered it, even though I'd asked about the strange dimple near her tailbone when she was just a week old!

We also found out she had a breakthrough infection, resulting in the fever I'd been advised (and assured myself) was the result of a common cold. It's just one of the many times in new motherhood when the "perfectly normal" symptoms turned out to be more. What some label as "neurotic mother" turned out to be "mother's intuition." 

And I realized again that I'm not good at long-distance running.

It's hardest for me to trust God and receive peace when the trouble is drawn out and affects the one I bore and love so fiercely. The weight of decisions, the miscommunication, the hoops to jump through, the lost lab work (another long story)—it just keeps piling on. The memories of Lyla's tears and reactions to medical testing haunt my thoughts, particularly at night. And I feel myself getting weaker, not stronger...not yet, anyway. I know He WILL work this out for good. I know He's shaping and teaching me in the process. I'm learning about the pain of love and the endurance required to go the distance for your child. That my heartache over Lyla is minuscule in comparison to God's heartache over us. And I'm well aware, and grateful, that Lyla's condition pales in comparison to what some other families go through. (Lord, be with them and bring Your help!) 

It just feels like I need to confess that this has been hard, so when you see me and my baby girl, smiling and fine, you'll know it's a gift and a reprieve. You'll know I don't always feel confident in this motherhood thing. Maybe you will think to pray for us, that healing would come quickly and that we would be a light through if all. Maybe you can remind me that I won't fall apart, even though seeing Lyla in pain and inconsolable during every infection, test, and procedure wrecks me.

I'm writing this from the parking lot of the pediatrician's office. Lyla is sleeping in her car seat, with another fever and another infection to fight. We'll see the nurses and doctor, do that horrible catheterized sample again, pick up the medication and remember to give it to her four times a day. Super Husband, ever the even-keel of our marriage ship, has been pretty clear-minded throughout this mess. I'm so grateful. Still, a lot of the coordination, talking with doctors, and the daily monitoring of Lyla's condition falls on my shoulders. I'm making the calls I dread, and slowly working through the rigamarole of the medical system. It's exhausting, often overwhelming. Yet, here we are. Lyla is our brave girl, whom we're so blessed to call our daughter—whacky ureters, kidneys, and all! ;-).

I'm not strong. But I think I will be. Because of God, His strength and care. He's still training me to be a long-distance runner. Because like it or not, better or worse, in sickness and health, I'm in this for the long haul.