January is gone, and with the good news we got from General Lee this morning, it looks like Winter will be quick to follow. To both I say: good riddance.
January was awful in our household. Not only were we sick 21 out of 31 days with assorted viruses, sniffles, sinus infections and a good old fashinoned colds, but we also learned from Ella’s immunologist that there’s a very strong chance that she has an immunodeficiency disorder. To be sure, he wanted to run some extensive (read: expensive) blood tests, so we traipsed off to the nearest lab to have the blood drawn and sent off for examination.
They screwed up the tests.
So off we went again to have even more blood drawn. As of this writing, I’m waiting for him to tell me what it all means. There’s a chance that Ella has nothing wrong with her. There’s a chance that she might have an immunodeficiency that requires immunoglobulin IV therapy. There’s a chance she might have something even worse than that. He’s promised to call this afternoon with this findings.
And so I wait.
My heart is so anxious that it’s arhythmic. My stomach feels like it’s going to explode–either from hunger or nerves. My head aches with the kind of dull roar that usually signifies something wicked this way comes (like pollen season). Meanwhile, the stupid clock just keeps ticking.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
In the midst of all of this, there’s one thought that keeps pounding its way to the forefront of my head: at least you’ll have answers.
After three frustrating years of Ella just being sick enough not to be normal, but no so sick as to be abnormal, we seem to finally be getting to the problem. I’m scared. I’m worried. I’m afraid for my daughter.
But at the same time, I’m relieved that we might have found the answers to the ear infections, the asthma, the sinus infections, the sore throats, the thousand and one horrific nights when we just sit in bed holding our daughter and praying to God that she could just be well.
So I’m not griping. I’m nervous, but I’m thankful. After all, how many people would gladly have a child whose medical history is mostly ear infections and asthma? How many fathers would leap at the chance to be able to coach their daughter in soccer instead of watching her in a bed? Having buried a child of my own, I know how many parents would give anything just to have a child who’s breathing–even if they have trouble doing so.
I’m blessed, even as I wait.
So tick away clock. Knowing that answers–that hope–is just around the corner, your passing seconds can’t hurt me. They only remind me that holding on to hope is more powerful than even the darkest despair.