Jones Holding Hands With Grace

Grabbing On to the Adventure of a Lifetime
1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-63192-917-5
Verlag: Bookbaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 250 Seiten

Life is difficult. We've all been enlisted into the fray of life's challenges and none of us get to tear up the draft card. And the pain that comes by way of that conscription touches us all. It's as though there's a grab bag of pain and everybody has to take a turn. No one gets a pass. There are no mulligans, no do-overs. But what do I do with the problem of that pain? Where do I go? How do I seek out answers to the big questions? And can any good come from life's hardest times? This is the story of faith, of family and of special need. It's a father's wrestling match with the pain of his daughter's medical diagnosis and the powerful purpose contained in that tiny, enormous, extraordinary life. This is our story-together. What it means to hold hands with something traumatic and transformative at the same time. What it means to grab on to the adventure of a lifetime. What it means to begin Holding Hands With Grace.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Jones, Marcus

Leseproben

I never saw it coming. The hit came out of nowhere. No warning. No hints. If you’ve ever played football, you know the feeling. I had been plowed by the biggest, ugliest guy on the field. You know, the Cretin with three teeth and no neck, dressed like a freight train? He was fire-hot mad and coming for me. In an instant I was looking out the ear-hole of my helmet. Blind-sided. I’ll never forget the feeling of walking out of our doctor’s office after our first sonogram. Everything was looking good. Jen, my wife, was excited. I was too, but a little scared. It was our first baby, after all. After scanning the screen for some evidence of twig or berries, they had found none. We were having a girl! I come from a decently long line of boys. There were no hair scrunchies in my house growing up. Nobody did nails or ponytails. We were doing good to bathe. We were boys. We did boy stuff. We threw dirt clods and played guns. We wrestled and tested each other’s mettle with feats of strength. As the oldest of three lads, I lead what in retrospect must have looked like something out of Lord of the Flies. And I had the conch. It was King of the Mountain and Master of the Universe. It was survival of the fittest and the best man always won. There were no doilies, no dolls, no ribbons, no bows. We didn’t do soft and serene. We did loud and obnoxious most of the time. We didn’t sit around and share our feelings. We tackled each other and tried to talk as little as possible. It was ESPN and John Wayne movies and pencil fights. I was raised in a house full of dudes. And to say I had no idea what to do with a little girl is putting it mildly. But even though I was a baby-girl-novice, and I kept trying to swallow the heart that was in my throat, I was thrilled. She would be my first baby. And the thought of her captivated me from the very beginning. I’m a Big Picture guy—a planner. It took me about thirty seconds to begin thinking of logistics: the gear we’d need to buy, the college savings account we’d need to open, the wedding I’d be paying for. I was going to need a second job. The dreams began to roll in. I imagined myself the proud father, handing my beautiful sixteen-year-old the keys to a magnificent sports car, fully equipped with digital surround sound, anti-lock brakes and air-bags inside and out. I dreamed of how I’d sit on the porch, polishing my 12-gauge, as suitor after failed suitor ran terrified from my presence. I smiled as I forecast what it might be like to walk her down the aisle one day, toward the one guy I had sufficiently threatened and vetted to take care of my one precious jewel. I counted the grandchildren. I planned the house I’d have built for her. I dreamed it all. And it was an elegant and stunning life indeed. It was perfect. And so it was. My wife and I began to plan and put in place all that we would need for this perfect, new addition to our family. And her name would be Addison. My wife had been dreaming of the name “Addison” since she was a little girl. I guess that’s what chicks do. They decide on the name of their babies before they decide on the name of their husband. Okay. I’m not sensitive. I liked it right away. It was unique. It was pretty. And I loved the nickname: “Addie”. What wasn’t clear to us right away was what her middle name might be. We kicked around some options. We thought about it a lot. I even prayed about it some. And the name we just kept coming back to, over and over, was Grace. Her name would be Addison Grace Jones. The contractions started knocking on the door around 5:00 PM. By six, they were ringing the doorbell about every five minutes or so. And by seven, those suckers were pounding the door down. It was time to head for the hospital. Am I the only guy who secretly lives for this moment? Come on, fellas. You know, the moment you’re driving your pregnant wife to the hospital, in labor, and now find yourself surrealistically free of all traffic laws? I mean, what cop gives a ticket to a woman in labor? I drove to the ER like something out of The Dukes of Hazard. I dared the Fuzz to pull me over. I had an excuse this time. It was the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. It was the happiest ride of my life. But wouldn’t you know it. My wife spoiled the fun, gently patting my hand and reminding me that our evening would have a happier ending if we weren’t killed on the way there. I slowed, but my heart raced. The hospital was a blur of orderlies and nurses, gowns and masks, doctors and IV drips. It’s as though the entire facility was an orchestra, whirling together in a mighty symphony just for me. And the crescendo was building. This was our moment. The great song of my life was about to be sung. Pain and pushing. Hollers and tears. Gallantry from my wife. Helplessness from me. All I could do was stand there and try to choke my heart back into place. The orchestra played the accelerando. The moment was here. And then she came. Addison Grace Jones made her long-awaited entrance to the world. I exulted in an instant. This was the thrill of victory. This was the moment every father dreams of. This was the pinnacle. And then the Cretin with three teeth and no neck barged into the room. The music suddenly stopped. All the oxygen was sucked out of the room. There was something wrong with Addie. In a twinkling, my wide-eyed outlook was reduced to the tunnel vision of a man looking out the earhole of his football helmet. Doctors and nurses flew into action. Alarms and codes rang out across the maternity ward. My baby was rushed into the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) and solemn conversations began to be exchanged between our previously buoyant medical team. Tests were proposed. Scans were readied. And then the shotgun blast that rang out like a verdict over my life: “We’re going to do some chromosomal testing.” I don’t think I’d ever made a sound like that before. It was guttural and ugly. It was the sound of horror mixed with despair. It’s inexpressible in human words. It’s the language of parents that have been blindsided by a devastating diagnosis. It’s the language of loss, the dialect of suffering. There’s no way to spell the sound. You just feel it. The whole hospital witnessed the detonation. As Jen lay sobbing in her delivery bed, I was whisked into the NICU where my newborn daughter lay in a tiny incubator, gurgling and struggling to breathe. Nurses attempted to suction her airway and remove the mucus bubbling from her nose and mouth. They inserted a tiny tube in one nostril and to their horror watched as it returned through the other. It wasn’t working. A flurry of scans followed. And within minutes came the results. Her insides weren’t connected properly. It was a diagnosis I’d never heard of: Tracheoesophageal Fistula (TEF). Her esophagus didn’t attach to her stomach. Her little windpipe had merged with her stomach that was now filling with air. She wouldn’t survive without surgery. The doctor gave me the verdict and he might as well have punched me in the stomach. I vomited right there on the spot. I was instantly reduced to a heaving mess at the nearest trashcan. This new dad had gone from the highest of heights to the lowest of lows, as each passing test result obliterated perfect dreams. My knees buckled as that freight train sent me pile-driving into the hospital floor. I remember my dad and my brother being with me in that moment. They leaned in and helped me up as I began to gather myself. I’ll never forget the words my dad whispered to me there on that floor. “Your baby needs you now. Your wife needs you. You’re the husband. You’re the dad. Now, get up!” That might strike you as somewhat harsh or unsympathetic. It wasn’t. It was a strident truth that cut straight through the noise of my self-pity. It was the exact appeal to action that I needed. It was my call of duty. I staggered sheepishly over to the tiny incubator where little Addie was laying. I was welcomed past nurses and technicians to look her full in the face. Little, round eyes blinked up at me, beneath tape and air cannulas, her baby hands and feet wrapped in sensors and riddled with needles. Addie’s right hand lay outstretched as our stares locked. I trembled and wept and stretched my hand toward hers, touching her tiny palm with my index finger. And there, as my feeble declaration of solidarity—new father to new daughter—I held hands with Grace for the first time. “Dad’s here, Addison Grace. Dad’s here.” I returned to the delivery room, where I’d left my wife, to bring news that Addie would be transferred to Children’s Hospital Orange County (CHOC) to undergo an intricate procedure to repair the defect. More weeping. More horror. And at 8 o’clock in the morning, it was the darkest daylight I’ve ever stood in. Still looming, the results of the genetic tests, which wouldn’t be conclusive until Day Three. But in my heart, I knew something else was wrong. “Not that, God!” I would whisper under my breath. “Anything, but that!” Addison was loaded into an ambulance for the 30-minute drive to Children’s. Jen, still in postpartum recovery, had to stay behind. “God, what is happening? Where are You?” I hiked myself into the passenger...