"Let the gratefulness overflow into blessing all around you. Then, it will be a really good day." Louie Schwartzberg
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And so it goes: a joke and an ending

posted by Susan Dominikovich on , , , , , , ,

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How do you get a room full of atheist doctors to talk about God?

Give them a miracle.


The irony of course is that this faith-living girl knows there was little of the miraculous involved.

Having said that, one day in September our boy with CFS who had been sleeping relentlessly for months on end, sometimes up to twenty-two hours in a day,* woke up. He woke up before nine am and stayed awake until nine pm. Just like that.

As quickly as he had fallen sick, he started to get better. 

But it wasn't a miracle. It can't be a miracle when you can see how logical it was that he got sick in the first place, and can pin-point what it was that eventually flicked that all important alertness switch.

There is no denying that 2014 was a terrible year for Sam. It was a terrible year for all of us. And 2013 wasn't much better. In fact, I'd go back to March 2012 and mark that as a turning point when bad stuff started to happen to this little family of ours that had been chugging along quite nicely thank you very much up to then. But bad stuff happens. {Insert better word for "bad stuff"}.

Amongst the bad stuff we did our very best as parents to make sure that our children were protected from it as much as possible. Because that's what good parents do. You hope that they are resilient and secure and loved so that when everything falls down around them, they still have plenty to hang on to. And we thought that was the case. Except in Sam's case, it wasn't enough. He was missing the resilience. And we did not realise but he was also missing the security. So he hung on to what he could which was our love and he tried so hard to see the world as a safe place again but he was battered and knocked and bruised until eventually he let go.

And went to sleep.

His waking again was sudden, but there was a reason for it. We had spent most of the year living in transition, renting a small house that never felt like home before moving into the one we were building. We had no space and put nothing up on the walls that was ours. A lot of our stuff stayed in boxes. Most of Sam's Lego stayed in boxes too. Plus I had sold/donated/purged just about everything we owned anyway. I needed to do that. It was part of my healing process. But I hadn't considered how much that would affect my resistant-to-change-but-everything-is-changing-SO-FAST teenager. Poor kid. No wonder his brain told him to go to sleep.

So moving day was Sam's wake up day. It was a joy-filled/ anxiety-ridden (yes, that juxtaposition is possible) day as friends helped us move and helped us celebrate. It instantly felt like home to all of us. And Sam was instantly bright again. He was laughing and the tell-all was when he started running around the house madly waving his light saber at his friends. There were a lot of disbelieving raised eyebrows amongst the adults in the house. But it makes so much sense: he finally had the security of a home as well as friends who cared about us as a family. Two very necessary things. 

It's a long road ahead and he is still far from the same Sam that he was. He still has very little resilience or energy which we are slowly and cautiously trying to rebuild. And he has setbacks, days when he needs to sleep again. On those days my heart gets lodged in my throat and stays there. I tell myself he will come right again and eventually he does and I relax, but there is always the chance of a relapse and I know that. The brain is a fragile thing. No wonder we have such thick skulls around it. But for some of us, our skulls aren't thick enough.

For those of you who have been following our story, especially this recent journey with CFS and Sam, thank you for your interest and support. I acknowledge it is an incredible story and if Sam's recovery makes you a tiny bit open to the possibility of a miracle, then that's not a bad thing. Because the most important thing we can have in this life is hope. We need hope in abundance. I will very briefly say that the road ahead involves more recovery and rehabilitation for Sam, from our beautiful home with beautiful people around us. I will not be going back to teaching any time soon, but will devote my time to Sam's progress and well-being. And in the in-between I will be writing.


But (cue weepy Titanic soundtrack) I won't be writing here. 

This blog of Beautiful Things began when I was grieving and processing a lot of hurt, several broken relationships and a damaged faith. I spent a considerable amount of time in the wilderness and I wrote my way through it. I am grateful to have found a place to do that. But things have changed. I have changed. And in order for something new to spring forth (there are many more stories to be told), the old needs to be put to bed. 

Or sold. 

Or given to Hospice. 

And so it goes. Just like that (reaches for the tissue box).

*I was recently asked by someone if I had managed to fit in the odd day of relieving here and there while at home with Sam. I politely shook my head while resisting the urge to respond with, "actually, no. There were days there where I had to struggle to get food down my son's throat while he slept. Going to work for six hours might have been just a tiny bit irresponsible."

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