Enjoy this continuing series of lessons I learned last week from time spent in the Emergency Room after my son broke his arm. You can read the first lesson learned here.
Here's the Scene. My four-year-old is laid stifly on a sterile bed with oxgen tubes breathing into his nose. He has wires stuck to his skin by tape that when removed makes ripping off band-aids look like cake-walks. He is shivering, because it is germ-free cold in this hospital room, with blank white walls and shiny tile floors that stare at us with indifference. His little chest is bare and his arm hangs by his side at an unnatural angle, highlighting both his frailty and his injury. Even laughter hurts. And he's scared . . . of strangers poking him with needles, of the grown-up talk that he doesn't understand, of more pain and of the unknown.
And after getting hooked up and plugged in, we wait. And between Matt's promise of a Wendy's Frosty and my own telling of a story designed to distract, I notice big crocodile tears escape from my little boy's eyes and make tracks down his cheeks. These are quiet tears, without drama or shouts for recognition. And he starts whispering sadly,
"I just want to go home. I just want to go home."
A soft longing verbalized. A tearful plea to return to the familiar, the safe, the
right. On stiff sheets, my preschooler cried quietly for the freedom to
just go home.
The Hospital Room. And Cade was speaking out a valid recognition, because life in the ER is
not how life is supposed to be. His childhood days should consist of eating cereal at the table and wrestling on the carpet with dad and sleeping under known blankets beside his favorite stuffed dog. But, instead, he was experiencing Tuesday night a place that was cold and painful and full of strangers and unexpected circumstances. And there were some bright spots maybe--the bed that had wheels or the sticker he got at the end--but overall, the ER was not remotely like home. And maybe the only redeeming factor to the evening was that life in the hospital room was short. Very short.
I did some research (not real research, I just googled it) and found that acording to USA Today, the average life span of an american male is about 72 years. I did some simple math (365 days x 24 hours x 72 years), and found that if a man were to live to that expectancy, he would see 630,720 hours in his lifetime. Now that's a lot of hours of sleeping and eating, breathing and talking, working and playing. But, here's the thing, my son only spent four of those nearly 650,000 in a hospital room (so far, I know 'knock on wood'). Only
four. A miniscule percentage in the grand scheme of years he will probably walk this earth.
Drum-Roll, Please. And the tear-jerker story and the rant about hospital rooms and the math lesson all lead me to a few conclusions which have been stirring in my heart over the past few days.
First of all, our
human experiences are as short as our son's time was in the ER last week. It's a few hours compared to hundreds of thousands; its 70-some years compared to
forever and
ever and
ever.
And while it is mercifully short, life on earth can also be incredibly painful. There are circumstances we can't control and relationships that don't work out and jobs we hate and babies that die and tsunamis that kill thousands. And though there may be free coffee and a star sticker,
life in the hospital room can really, really suck.
But, though it may seem like it, I know that
life in the ER is not all that there is. I have a home that awaits.
A place where things are made right.
A place where I am known fully and loved extravagantly.
A place where all broken bones are made whole again.
And if I can just remember this perspective of time and my future, I can walk in more
hope as I try to
live well my own four hours.
Thanks for reading. I realize some may not agree with the belief in an existence beyond our human lives or in the idea of heaven (my analogy here of 'home'), but thanks for reading what I am learning anyway. Feel free to email me or leave a comment with any questions/thoughts you may have.
Even if you disagree, I promise I won't break you arm.
And Richer Appetizers for the Heart. The clapping aspen leaves that mesmerize the eye. A moment of peace. The mountain view that takes your breath away. Conversation with a friend that leave you feeling known. Your daughter twirling in dress-up clothes in the kitchen. The sigh of Contentment. A kiss with your spouse that breathes romance. A sense of wholeness. A baby's laugh. That music, that art, that beauy that draws you to something bigger than yourself. All appetizers of more to come, of the Feast that awaits.
