Isn’t that amazing? That such a big thing could be accomplished in such a relatively short time? Avery is sitting on the couch watching Sponge Bob and bossing everyone around (very imperial) and I can’t find words big enough for how good it feels.
The whole trip was filled with traveling mercies, and Tom said it best–he said it felt like there were lily pads we could jump to, one then another, all along the way, that saw us safely across to the other shore.
There was the nurse who removed Avery’s arm restraints when I said, “He’s trying to sign.” As soon as his arms were free, Avery signed, “Ow” and “All Done.” There was the nurse who listened when I explained, “Avery understands everything you say. If you could talk to him, he’ll know why you’re doing what you’re doing.” In the CICU, there was the family in the space next to ours, who turned out to be from Montana, too. On the hospital floor, there was the child in the next bed, who came over and told a sobbing Avery that it would be okay. And there were all of you–my lily pads of love and strength.
There’s so much more to say: about how hospitals are the worst place to rest; how a gold ring given to Avery by a visiting clown became my talisman (Avery gave it to me to hold, right before they took him away, and I was convinced that if I took it off my finger something bad would happen); how I knew Avery would be okay when he looked up at a monitor, which resembled a television screen, and asked for a cartoon.
But all of this will come later–for now, there’s a very brave boy who needs to be held, and cuddled, and kissed, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.
Thank you, from our house to yours. And if I can ever be a lily pad for you, say the word.