It’s been twenty-four days since I got on the ambulance with Chase.
At the time Chase was first unresponsive and then tested in the ER, the radiology report indicated there might have been signs of micro-hemorrhage in one of the growths (cavernous malformations; cavernomas) in his brain. However, upon further review with all the teams downtown – who have access to almost fourteen years of scans and pictures – there is not enough of a change to positively declare a micro-hemorrhage. It turns out that the brain just looks a little rough around the edges when it’s been cut open and radiated and all sorts of life-saving measures in real time.
And oh, in that moment when the calls came and the verdicts were handed down. I was so upset. I shocked myself, actually. And in the stillness and frustration, I had to confront the truth that I think I actually wanted it to be a micro-hemorrhage just because it was a crystal clear answer and those are horribly few and far between when it comes to Chase Ewoldt.
Isn’t that crazy? Sometimes horrible things don’t feel so very horrible just because they come with some level of clarity. And conversely, a lack of clarity is it’s own fearful place, isn’t it? I’m so thankful God sits with us in those spaces, dear ones.
What was far more worrisome to Chase’s regular teams was that Chase very clearly had a small season of confusion after he woke up. He was almost nonverbal, but he knew where he was and recognized who I was. However, that night, when Bob came to pick us up from the hospital, Chase was telling him how nice it was to see him finally on this long day… as if he had not seen Bob (talked to Bob, even) on his way into the ambulance within minutes of waking.
This is something of a red flag to everyone as this tends to be a classic hallmark of what happens after a seizure. Only we didn’t see Chase have any seizure activity. In fact, the nurses pulled back his sleeping eye lids and his pupils responded normally to the light.
But there is another kind of seizure… one that is not really absent, present, or convulsive. In fact, from the little bit I understand, it happens in a napping moment and then the patient remains unconscious to the world while the brain recovers, looking for all the world like they are asleep. But they cannot be roused. Sounds heartbreakingly familiar, right?
Perhaps at this point, you’re wondering why I am I sharing this with you while we still have no answers. Because this not knowing is Chase’s life, dear ones. And you’re always welcome on the journey…
Right now, we are staying in very close contact with his neurology team. And due to the high demand for pediatric care, we are on a waiting list to get a season of monitoring moved from May until now. During that time (whenever it comes), Chase will be admitted to the hospital and monitored for seizure activity for at least twenty-four hours with the hope (as always) for answers and clear next steps.
So we are waiting. We are waiting for the neurology piece… and for several other pieces too because Chase has had a long and rough several weeks. What we do know right now is that there will be more things unfolding… most notably, following a long conversation on Friday afternoon, it was determined that Chase’s heart needs his body to be back in cardiac rehab.
Over the last twenty-four days, the feelings of human brokenness and the fragility of Chase’s life have felt increasingly more overwhelming. So I’m sharing here some words that I wrote out for the women at the retreat last weekend. I’m holding them close…and maybe you need them too?
“I know, at least for my own part, that I most want to beg God during a season when I least feel like thanking him. But this particular practice of thanksgiving throws wide the doors on our stress and our sadness because even in our darkest moments, this verse [Philippians 4:6], this command is a reminder that we still have things for which to be thankful.
This isn’t an arbitrary benchmark . It also isn’t God looking at us and saying, “I’ll give you this if you give me that” like some tit-for-tat argument. God isn’t a parent teaching an errant toddler to say please and thank you.
Rather, I believe that this is a call to faithfully rehearse His goodness even as we fall apart in our present anxieties. This is us crying out: “God I can’t… please help… because I remember what you did before”.
This isn’t a “Just say please!”, this is: “When you can’t see straight, don’t forget what I’ve done!” And when we speak our thanks, when we recall what God has done (even at times, out loud), we are essentially reminding ourselves. …and we need this.”
This is where I sit right now: “God, I can’t, please help!” And even exhausted and with tears running down my face, I know there will be good – because He is good – even if I can’t see it all coming together right now. So by His grace, we will remain defiantly thankful even with no answers…
Moment by moment.
