I wrote a few days back very briefly of our trip to Children’s Hospital. Mainly, it was just an update on Owen, and my relief that he was okay. The trip really made an impact on me, though, and I’ve been mulling it over in my mind ever since. It has taken me till now to write about it.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was very anxious to hear the specialist tell me that my baby was going to be okay. When we got on the elevator, we rode up with a lady and her two kids. She had a little girl who was about three years old, and a baby in a stroller. The little girl was adorable, but it was obvious that she had cancer. She was completely bald. As her mom asked us what was wrong with Owen, and told us that her baby had jaundice, too, I couldn’t help but notice the little girls big, brown eyes. Her lack of hair made them seem even bigger, I think. She just looked at me, and my heart nearly broke in two. I can’t imagine what that little girl had been through. I made myself focus on what her mother was telling us about the girl’s baby sister. I kept thinking how awful it would be to have a seriously ill child, and yet she was trying to reassure us that our baby would be okay.
When we got off of the elevator, I had to sign some papers and give our insurance information. I was trying to get an idea of what I was signing by reading over the paper. I noticed that the other lady just dashed down the paper, initialing and signing. She had obviously done it many times before.
When we went into the inner waiting room, it was completely full. There were lots of kids, along with their parents. Some of the kids were obviously sick, and some were siblings. Even though most of them were smiling, watching the kids do spin-art while they waited, every parent in the room had tired eyes.
There wasn’t any empty groupings of chairs, but there were two chairs next to a lady who was sitting all alone. I asked her if anyone was sitting there, and she told us to go ahead and sit. Normally, I don’t have any trouble making small talk with strangers in waiting rooms, but this time it was different. The lady was all alone in the waiting room of a Children’s Hospital on the oncology floor, and she had obviously been crying. What do you say?
We left the waiting room briefly to weigh Owen and measure him, and then went back to the waiting room. The nurse told us that she would get us a room as soon as possible, because she knew that we didn’t want to be in the waiting room. Like it was something we should be shielded from. Because she knew. She knew that it was hard to see. I kept fighting tears, because of the overwhelming sadness around me.
When we sat back down, the lady asked me how old Owen was. When I told her that he was five weeks old, she said, “He’s so young. What is he doing here?”. I almost felt guilty when I told her that he was jaundiced. I, in turn, asked her why she was there, and she said that her four year old son was having a spinal tap. He had leukemia. And I fought the tears.
It was hard to sit there. The nurse who said that she knew that we didn’t want to be there, it wasn’t because we were afraid our kid would catch something, or that someone had the flu. It was hard because we were surrounded by people who were staring death in the face, and begging it not to take their babies. It was hard to sit with these people, knowing that I had never been where they are. I can’t even fathom the agony of knowing that your child was sick. That they could die.
As I sat in the exam room, I heard a nurse discussing chemo for a little child. When she went into the room, I heard the child sobbing and protesting. I did cry, then.
When we left the room, we had been reassured that our baby was going to be okay. We left through the waiting room, and the mother that I had sat beside was now standing behind a four year old attached to an i.v. pole. She was helping him stack blocks. She saw us leaving, and smiled at me. “Bye.” she said. “I hope your son gets better.”
“Yours, too.” I hope that my smile conveyed what I could not say.
I left the hospital a different mother than when I had went in. I had been humbled. I am so blessed to have three healthy children. I had taken their health for granted. Every good checkup had been expected. I just expected everything to be fine, and it always has been. I don’t deserve healthy children any more than anyone else does. Those parents love their children just as much. They are good and decent people, too. So, why should their child suffer? Some things in this world will never make sense to us. We don’t understand why things have to be the way that they are. Only God knows. We have to trust him.
I want to publicly thank Him for my children. I am so thankful that He has given them to me. I don’t deserve the joy that they bring to my life. I am so blessed. Owen’s ordeal with jaundice has left him no worse for the wear, but it has forever changed me. I thank the Lord for reminding me how blessed I am. He has been very, very good to me.