When I look back at my last post, I see it was in early September, and that indicates why I haven't written since. We resumed homeschooling again around that time, and started the last stretch of my daughter's pregnancy (resulting in the birth of a darling second granddaughter, and the normal activities that follow such an event), and things stepped up at the church as I became officially the musical director and thus entrusted with several new responsibilities.
We also had several of our regularly scheduled medical appointments with AMR, all of them each a 100 mile round trip and one a 400 mile round trip. And the boys went back off to college. And needed my help for various college-related things.
We also thoroughly emptied out our garage which had been waiting years for such a project. And got 3 cords of firewood which we are in the process of stacking on our porch.
Listing this helps me take a deep breath and realize that it's not so strange I am behind on everything, including blogging.
I hope to get back on some sort of blogging frequency, but the fact is I can't count on it, and so I'll have to be somewhat content with writing WHENEVER, and having one of those little unsystematic blogs. And there are worse things, for sure. The blogs on my feed are almost all sort of unsystematic that way. The fact is that writing is on my simmer burner. I give it a stir every now and then, but that's all.
I have a lot I could write about at the moment. I think I'll just link to a post by my husband, though. September 30/October 1 is Aidan's transplant anniversary. He went in that night and came out the next morning, the next month. My husband writes about it every year, often just a Facebook mention. This one is more complete. Interesting how his memories are different from mine. Not contradictory -- just different. I don't even remember saying "I think Aidan is dying." But I do remember how Aidan convulsed, how the nurse slapped the code blue button and how all the doctors and nurses came at a run as they do when there is a code, how I backed away with my hands on my face, just as they do in movies. We had been through a multitude of very difficult things over the four months since his birth, and I had kept it together -- stayed in control, mind over matter, even through the turmoil of hope, despair, grief, shock. But at that moment, I lost it. I didn't scream or anything, but I could hardly walk to tell my husband (who was in charge of the other 5 kids ages 3 to 13) what I guess I did tell him.
I wouldn't have left Aidan there with the code team of my own volition, but someone told me I had better leave, and in that circumstance my tiny vestige of sanity actually agreed. It seems to me when I think of it that someone should have gone with a mom in that state to make sure she was all right, and perhaps someone did. I don't remember, but if someone did, I must have convinced her I was OK enough to be on my own. I wasn't really, but I didn't want someone there trying to help me out. It would have only distracted me from pulling the exploded universe back around me again. Anyway, I made that walk to my husband and kids alone with two alternatives in my mind: one, they wouldn't be able to revive him; two, if they did revive him, they would never embark on a transplant with someone who was basically on the edge of death like that.
It turned out the choice was number three, the one that didn't occur to me. The liver was there, he had been transfused so his liver-failure related coagulopathy was temporarily minimized, and he wasn't going to get any better. There was no better time for a transplant, grim as the chances looked. So once they resuscitated him, they went ahead with it. And he made it, in spite of the odds. There was some good work done that night. If you want more of the story, read my husband's blog.