Many times this year I’ve felt numb. Like I can’t feel anything. Sitting in the back of an ambulance holding Gage’s hand as we rode to the ER, I expected to feel anything from panic to fear to hysteria. But instead, I seemed to be void of any feelings at all as I calmly explained to the paramedics Gage had had an operation 4 days earlier to place a VNS device, and no, it wasn’t activated yet, and actually the surgery was in Kansas City at Children’s Mercy, not in Springfield at Mercy Hospital.
I suppose it’s a scenario I played out in my mind over and over, even on a subconscious level, calling 911 and taking that ambulance ride. Perhaps that’s why I felt like there was an “appropriate” way to behave or feel during the event when it did happen. I consider myself lucky that we made it nearly 7 years before we had to make that first call due to a seizure that wouldn’t stop, even after two doses of rescue medication. I also feel lucky that surgery this summer was the first time Gage underwent an operation. But somehow it seems like things have been in fast forward ever since, coming at us in rapid fire succession and feeling all the more overwhelming because of it.
In addition to Gage’s first surgery, 911 call and ER visit, this year marked his first scary seizure in a VERY public setting. What was meant to be a time of celebration and fun turned into my fears being realized in an instant…fears I’ve harbored since Gage’s first seizure nearly five years ago. And still, I felt oddly numb as I walked through the motions as things unfolded that afternoon.
I suppose the reality is that nothing can truly prepare us for the things we have to face, and we can’t predict how we’ll respond to trauma. Who’s to say what’s the right way to respond, react or feel anyway? What I do know to be true, and I’ve seen evidenced over and over again, is that we’re not alone.
The “appropriate response” I should come to expect is from the people we’re surrounded by, who keep showing up and caring about us and loving us and Gage though it all. Grandparents driving to our house in middle of the night at a moment’s notice. Friends making post-surgery food deliveries. A fellow medical mom timing a seizure and making detailed observations when I couldn’t even come up with an answer to the question “Hannah, what do you need?” And so. many. others. just picking up the pieces and tying up the loose ends without missing a beat.
Reflecting on this year as it comes to a close, not all of the memories will be happy ones. I can’t erase the traumatic moments from my brain, even if I want to. But I’ll also remember the good things that came along with the hard. All the people who keep showing up, who feel like the hands and feet of Jesus to me. The ones loving us in practical and tangible ways. These acts of thoughtfulness, of kindness, are how the light gets in to my dark places. Through them, God continues to stretch and mold me. It leaves my heart more open, less hardened. I don’t have to stay numb — void of emotions — when I make space for gratitude and remember I’m not alone. God never leaves me.