Our Little Fighter

Around five o’clock yesterday evening, they placed a “wound vac” over the opening where Bowen’s chest tube was removed. He didn’t even cry once. It looks like something out of Iron Man. With that chest scar and wound vac, my kid looks tough. I’m so proud of my little fighter. They’re hoping this will help clear up his infection and prevent him from having to go through another surgery.

I can’t stop looking at that photo. Man, my boy is tough…and cute. I’d like to take the credit, but I have to give it where it’s due. He definitely gets it from his mother. I don’t know how she does it, day in and day out, from early morning ’til late at night. Sarah sits at Bowen’s bedside, emotionally and mentally strong. She’s attentive to his eating and breathing, closely observes his treatments and medications, and she asks every good question imaginable that will help us learn to care of our little man at home. She dialogues freely with the doctors and nurses about his progress while I struggle to absorb the numbers and medical terminology. I often wonder how she remains so engaged on that level. It’s increasingly difficult for me to focus after four weeks of sitting in this hospital room with little to no sunlight, watching our son suffer in so many ways. The irony is that as much as I want to get out of here, I sometimes feel afraid to leave.

From My Journal. 10.5.10

I’m having an especially hard time this afternoon because I’m leaving town for five days. It’ll be the first time I’ve left for more than a day since we’ve been here. Part of me is excited to revisit the world outside these walls, but this place has become a strange comfort to me. It reminds me of a church, where sick and hurting people come to find hope. I’ve also developed a sense of community here. Not only have I found comfort in others, but also in comforting others. I love to travel with the band, but we move from city to city, briefly sharing our lives with the people we come in contact with. Here, I’m not just singing about the place where heaven and earth collide, I’m living in it. I’m surrounded by so many people in need, and I’m not just surrounded by them, I’m invested in their lives. I feel a great sense of purpose here. I’m not just looking at need from a distance, I’m holding it by the hands, looking it in the eyes everyday. This is not the suburbs. I don’t have the comfort of my home, my car, our tour bus or private green room. The greatest comfort I have here, is the fact that in the midst of suffering, I have come to find something greater than hope. I have found assurance. Assurance that life is more than just a body, and that “my flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” Psalm 73:26