Day 4 -- It Doesn't Make It Much Easier

Today is our 4th day at Overland Park Regional Medical Center. We've been here since late Friday night. It still doesn't feel real to me. There have been no real answers coming out from the specialists, and I don't want to leave Emily's side. I'm scared about what might happen while I'm gone. If I'm running an errand around town, no problem. I'm close, but what if I'm home in Louisburg?

All these petty questions keep dominating my mind. What about Brody? He needs his mommy and daddy, and he needs to be with us. He needs his home. Every night for as long as we can remember, we've gone to bed with Brody. We haven't done this since we came to the hospital. What about our home? We left it in disorder. I'd been home all week and still left the place in a mess. What about my school work, my projects for classes, and preparation for the new school year?

I'm doing whatever I can to keep mind off the news we've been getting. They say that no news is good news, but what about vague news? We've heard nothing concrete. Several doctors have been in and out of our room -- Emily's regular OB-GYN, the perinatologist, the doctor from NICU. All I know is that my wife and daughter are okay. There's nothing I know about when she'll have to deliver, or when our baby will decide to come. It's a horrible waiting game, knowing that both of them are okay, but there could still be a storm coming.

I've never been in this kind of situation before. When they told Emily that she'll have to be on bed-rest for the duration of the pregnancy -- at the hospital, no less -- I couldn't grasp what that meant. I just can't imagine what being on bed-rest will be like. She will be doing this for the next few days (worst case) or the next 10 weeks (best case).

With all the health issues and questions of everyone's safety, how could anyone think about the mundane things such as homework, housework, and professional work? For me, and I imagine or anyone, it's a way to distract us from the serious issues before us. I can't help but think about Emily and her job. She went home Friday afternoon, looking forward to hanging out with me and our son that evening. Tasks were left undone because they could wait until the weekend is over. Now someone else has to take care of it. She can't work from the hospital, and she can't get back in to prepare things for whomever will be covering her position.

Our little girl is 24 weeks and 1 day along. When she will decide to come, or when Emily's body decides to deliver, we don't know. Our baby will be so tiny, so weak, so exposed. How long will it be before she's strong enough for us to hold her?

This makes me think about an old friend and his infant son. At 1 month old, the baby developed a type of cancer that had hospitalized him for months. It was so long before my friend could hold his son or take him home. As long as my friend's son was in danger, I had felt guilty talking about my son and the funny things he would do. If I were in his shoes, I wondered if I would have been bitter, asking why this has to happen to us instead of someone else. I didn't want to add to the possibility of him having those feelings.

It's all I can do to keep from having those same feelings right now.

Emily's doctor thinks that this whole thing is a partial placental abruption. Only part of the placenta has detached from the uterine wall; the rest is still attached. It could either tear away more and lead to a very early delivery or it could grow further attached and hold on as long as it can. The doctor thinks that it could have been caused by a defective gene that causes a clotting disorder. Another doctor had mentioned that it could possibly be that the placenta had attached to her scar tissue from the septum surgery. I wish we knew for sure, but the experts can't figure it out.

All I know is that there was too much blood for me to ever forget. Friday night, I've never been that scared in my life. I mean truly scared -- there's the fear I've felt when I was young and afraid of the dark, when I was a teenager and about to get in a fist fight, and anytime when a tornado is in the area. This is different. This is fear for someone I love.

We've made it four days without having to deliver. The doctor said that making it through the first 24 hours was huge, and the same for the next 24 hours. Now it's one day at a time. Another doctor told us that of the people who are in this situation at this point in the pregnancy, 50% of them deliver and 50% go on one more week. Of those people going on one more week, 50% of them deliver and 50% of them go on one more week, and so on. Moving from one day to the next is a good thing. One day at a time, they say. They keep positive, but it doesn't make things easy for us.

We've been getting lots of prayers coming from friends and family. I feel like I haven't prayed enough. I've tried; I've bowed my head and tried to speak to God, but I don't know if my words are the right kind of words. I don't know if I deserve to have my words heard. Emily and our daughter deserve it, though. We have a loving God who will protect us, and I'll never give up on asking for His help.

A Writing Drought

Some random thoughts as of late:
...Haven't been able to finish a blog in about a month, even though I have started 9-10 new ones
...Been fostering some serious doubts about my coaching and teaching abilities lately -- students and athletes don't seem to listen to instructions these days
...A broken nose is a real pain, especially when I have a cold and a toddler who loves to flail around when I hold him
...Speaking of Brody, he must be in training to be a soccer hooligan -- he's getting down the head-butts and screeches pretty well
...Spending nearly 3 hours driving every day takes a toll on my niceness
...I can never watch enough Kung-Fu Panda, Shrek, or Toy Story!
...Waking up at 5:00am on my day off is a-o-k with me, just as long as Brody is alternating between his ultra-snuggly and hyper-goofball modes
...I can't wait for some snow! I wouldn't even complain if it happens during the break and I don't get a snow day for it
...Christmas decorations really can make the season feel like Christmas -- I just love pines covered with lights, holly wreaths on the front door, red bows and golden strands of garland!
...Some time away from my wife and son really puts things in perspective and helps me remember how much I love them
...All this hype about Josh Selby / KU and Jacob Pullen / KSU basketball gets kind of annoying, and I don't think it's just because I'm a wrestling guy
...Some people's political posts on Facebook are glaringly ignorant and really annoying... even some of the "conservative" ones (I'm not just hating on the libs)
...I really need to get to the theaters to watch Tron Legacy, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
...I've got a John Irving book that I really need to read... just haven't had the time or means
...Listen to books on CD has been awesome in making my daily commute fly by quickly
...I could use a weekend fishing trip soon
...Better yet, I could use a week of sitting around with Brody and Emily, just lazing about and enjoying each other's company
...Emily has been a blessing, especially this past semester. I don't know how I'd ever get through things without her

Well, that's it for now! Maybe I'll get another entry finished soon!

Shoes

The other day, my wife asked me to read a moving article about a young man named Nathan Stiles, a Spring Hill football player who collapsed while walking off the field and later died as a result of previous head injuries.

It was an article from ESPN; its primary topic was not the injury and its circumstances, but rather the legacy of this 17-year-old young man and his family's experiences and the direction in which they are now moving after his death.

Nathan's parents started "Nathan Project" to spread the word of God. According to the ESPN article, his father, Ron Stiles, wears his son's size-12 Nike high-tops to every Nathan Project event. Ron has size 10 feet. He told the journalist writing the article, "I'm never going to fill those shoes, [...] But I'm going to do everything I can to walk in them."

I really don't know how I made it through that article without my eyes watering and releasing a torrent of tears. Maybe I was just too tired to experience a fully cathartic moment.

Almost immediately the article got me thinking about Brody. I don't know how I could ever cope with any tragedy happening to him, and I have so much admiration for Nathan's parents because of their extraordinary strength. Would I be able to muster the fortitude to stand so strong in such an incredibly difficult situation? Before I can come close to being able to imagine what I'd do, I have to consider who I am as a father right now.

Just a month ago, we dressed Brody in a wrestling singlet for his 18-month pictures. One shot had him standing in my wrestling shoes, the tops of them almost coming up to his knees. An adorable picture!

Ron Stiles had talked about trying to walk in his son's shoes. In a proud moment, I had just had my son try to walk in my shoes.

What will Brody end up doing in his life? Will he be a strong Christian? Will he be a wrestler or soccer player? A musician or scholar? A gentleman who'll champion the happiness of others by standing up for the little guy?

I wonder what kind of relationship I'll end up having with him. Some of my most personal conversations -- the ones where I'd revealed my deepest emotions -- have been with my own father. It took a while for me to open up to him, but it finally happened when I was in my early twenties.

I think my problem was that I never understood his life or what it had been like walking in his shoes. The only shoes I remember seeing him in are penny loafers, cowboy boots, or hiking boots. His feet have carried him so many places, both good and bad. He's been to places so dark that I hope I -- or Brody -- never have to follow. He's been to places so bright and magnificent that I hope I do get such a chance.

He's stumbled and fallen, he's splashed in life's puddles. He's followed the map, and sometimes he blazed his own trail.

I haven't always picked the best shoes myself, so there are definitely times I hope Brody doesn't try to walk in my shoes.

If he does, however, I hope he tries on the flip flops so that he can relax and enjoy life, the cowboy boots so that he can step lively and proud with each resounding step, the wrestling shoes so he can experience competition and success as a product of hard work, and the loafers so he can walk with an air of a professional.

And there will be times that I hope he goes barefoot so that he can feel the earth and grass on his toes as he makes his own path.

He'll buy new pairs of shoes he won't wear often, and some for special occasions only. Some he'll wear daily and get his money's worth right away. I hope he finds a comfortable pair or two without having to search too hard.

I can't always tell him which pair to go with, but I can be there to advise him. He may want to try a pair just like mine, and I may have to tell him early on that he has no choice in the matter and that he has to wear certain shoes.

For right now, he's switching off and on between a nice pair of Stride-Right shoes and his boots with the flashing lights on the side. I hope that he listens when I try to give advice and that he's able to imagine what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes without having to directly experience it for himself. I pray that God gives him the opportunity to enjoy every step in life, and I pray that God gives him the strength to endure when the path becomes rough. Most of all, I pray that, like the old "Footprints" poem says, Brody allows God to carry him through the dark times on his journey through life.

Escaping from the Crib

This past weekend, the last thing I expected to see at 1:00 in the morning was Brody walking toward me, crying, and holding his arms out for me to pick him up, yet when I was dragged from a deep sleep by the sound of distant crying, that's exactly what I saw. It turns out that the distant sound of his cry was due only to the depth of my sleep state, and not the actual distance between his room and mine.

I picked him up and set him down on the bed. Emily, who'd been sleeping just as deeply, had this look of confusion on her face. It was the look that clearly said, "I have no idea what's going on!" I didn't have any clue, either. I stumbled downstairs to see what I could find out. I must have still been asleep, because one of the first thoughts I had was that I was slightly annoyed because someone had let my toddler out of his "kennel" (honestly, we do have him sleeping in a crib, not a kennel). Then, when my consciousness began to surface and I realized that it was son, not a dog, I went to make sure that there hadn't been a malfunction with the side of the crib or that he hadn't broken it with his massive toddler strength.

I found nothing. He simply stretched one leg up over the edge, slid over, and fell to his feet below. Climbing out of his crib last night must have taken some serious goal-setting and determination. I'm proud of the little fella; his daring escape from his crib was much like the escape of the Count of Monte Cristo or the escape of Andy Dufresne, except without the unjust imprisonment.

The next morning, after trying to figure out whether or not it had been a dream to wake up and find that Brody had climbed out of his crib and up the stairs to our bedroom, I found myself sitting in church hearing a sermon about goals. It seemed to be a fine coincidence. Our pastor addressed the idea of goals and how everyone should have them. Goals are the things that provide motivation for us in our daily lives. Life is truly made of dreams, for without dreams or goals, what is the point of it all?

Our pastor based his sermon on Paul's epistle to the Phillipians (3:12-14). In this letter, Paul writes of how he is always pressing forward in his pursuit of "perfection." As Christians, we are all constantly pursuing the same goal of a relationship with Christ. Each of us may get closer and closer at various points in our lives, but none can truly achieve our goals. The question isn't so much of can we, but should we ever be able to reach our goal of a relationship with Christ? What would we then do, once that ultimate goal of all goals had been attained?

Being a coach sitting in church listen to a sports-minded pastor, I has an easy job understanding the exact metaphor he was giving us. Pastor used baseball as the basis of his comparison, but with baseball being a sport with which I'm not all that familiar, I find myself able to discuss it in terms of wrestling. I can't take credit for the originality of this metaphor; it's just my personal take on an incredibly pertinent sermon.

Essentially, there are three types of wrestlers: those that make it happen, those that watch it happen, and those that wonder what the heck just happened. The first group are those who set goals and pursue them passionately. The second group are those who may have some talent and may have seen some success, but mostly, they have seen a lot of luck. The third group are those who are simply utterly clueless; perhaps they don't care about their participation that much.

All three groups co-exist in any sport, but the common thread between them is not necessarily just their respective sport, but more importantly the presence of a coach.

In the same way athletes make errors in matches, we make errors in life, but it is Christ who allows us to recover. It doesn't matter if we're the type of person who makes things happen, watch things happen, or wonder what just happened; Christ loves us all and acts as the coach to whom we all should listen.

To further adapt the Pastor's metaphor, life is like a wrestling dual -- one team against another. Most people think of wrestling as being an individual sport, but once a person becomes involved in wrestling, it is clear how strong the team element really is. In this metaphor, there are three things to remember:

1) We're all on a team, so each of us needs to be a team player. Whereas life isn't an individual effort, we all do our individual parts to win the competition. Each move in each period of each match contributes to the overall team score.

2) We have a coach, so we need to listen to him. The Pastor asked a great rhetorical question: "Why call him 'coach' if we're not going to listen?" It's when my wrestlers stop listening to me and they begin doing their own thing that things typically fall apart -- technique wanes, frustrations soar, and strategy goes right out the window, along with the probability of winning the match.

3) We may get hurt in the match, but we need to get over it. The idea is to hop up and shake it off, and we must know the difference between an "injury" and an "ouchie," to quote Coach Kit Harris. Pain is as much a necessary element to the sport as is the mat, the shoes, the singlets, and the headgear. The same goes with life.

These comparisons between life as a Christian and being an athlete serve to remind us of our humanity, as well as our intended purpose in life. Sure, there will be errors along the way; we won't always be team players, at times we'll fail to listen to our Coach, and we will frequently feel the sting of injury.

The Apostle Paul discusses the pursuit of perfection. In setting this goal, he steps forward on a journey of growth and shows us all how one should seek atonement with Christ.

It's easy for me, as a coach, to understand this message from the Bible, especially with how clearly the pastor has conveyed it. However, it's not always going to be that clear to me, and it's not always going to make sense to my son Brody, especially in his early years. The other night, he achieved his previously-set goal of escaping from his crib. He had no team to consider or to cheer him on, he had no one coaching him along the way, and surely he must have felt something painful when he landed, yet he met his goal (and put his parents in a panic to find him a suitable toddler bed).

Goal-setting is as much a part of life as is breathing, eating, and sleeping. We have been programmed to do this from the very beginning. Christ enables us to start off enjoying the game on our own, but sooner or later, we all have to discover the rules of the game. We can go through life wondering what happened -- that is, why we achieve some goals and why we fall short of others. We can also set our goals at a minimum level, hoping that our low bar is easily overcome. Or we could set our goals high and do what it takes to achieve them.

In order to fully achieve our earthly goals, and to then be able to set focus on our goal of perfect relationships with Christ, we must work together, heed our coaches, and bounce back from whatever adversity tries to keep us from our dreams, whether it's escaping from the crib or finding true happiness in life.

Guys Night

This is a topic that I'm sure every father either thinks or writes about: the evolution of the time-honored "guys night."

Once upon a time, it was all about spending the night at a buddy's house as we played video games, munched on Doritos, and drowned ourselves in Mountain Dew (because it was cool and it allowed us the normally taboo caffeine high, which exceeded that of normal caffeinated drinks). Later, "guys night" became a gathering at some's apartment as we played darts or pool, noshed on cheese fries, and guzzled beer. Now, "guys night" has become one of my favorite things to do with a pretty cool little dude: we spend the evening playing with mulch or flowers or plant stalks in the flower bed, chowing down on fish sticks, and drinking Diet Mountain Dew (me) and milk (Brody).

My, how things have changed!

"Guys night" has gone from involving good buddies, "bestest" friends, drinking buddies, and "bros" to my best little buddy, Brody.

Tonight, Emily is enjoying a much-deserved evening out with a good friend, and I'm pretty well entertained just watching as Brody stomps around making myriad odd noises. Every note from his mouth is full of glee, but from time to time these noises have a trace of frustration, most likely due to his inability to grasp the concepts of nature at this point. When he sees Billy the dog pressing his nose against the window, he barks back at him; he doesn't go up to the window and interact, he just goes about his business and utters, "woof-woof-woof." Some of his other noises are nonsense syllables, but my heart melts every time I hear him say "Daddy" or "Dada" and he gives me that adorable toddler's toothy smile -- his mommy's smile.

He busies himself by making scattered piles of mulch, all the while looking back at me, as if he's making sure that I'm as proud of his work as he is. At one point he sets down a large piece of mulch at the top of a pile and looks up to me, squeals from a huge smile and claps his hands. He trots back and forth around the landscaping bricks, playing some new game that only he understands -- and it's only important that he understands it, not that I do. He then starts climbing up the front step only to turn around again and step off because he now knows how to do it without falling down and he wants to show off.

Brody now goes about picking more and more of the stalks from the flowers... Only the green stalks, though, and not the dead ones. I wish he knew the difference so that he could help with the gardening. He casts the stalks down into a new green pile -- he won't mix the green stalks with the brown mulch -- and then stops to stare at it. Maybe he's unhappy with his creation, or maybe he's just having fun being random and chaotic, but he then sweeps his pile with his hands and scatters green and brown all over the gray concrete sidewalk.

He's so full of smiles and giggles that it breaks my heart to take him inside, but it's getting cold and he's refusing to put on his sweatshirt. I ask Brody if he wants to go inside. Nope! What do you want for dinner? Nope! (It wasn't even a question that warranted a "yes" or "no" answer.) Just the same, he only wants to play around outside. He cries and whimpers as I carry him in, but at my mention of Mickey Mouse, he forgets all about his woes. Our biggest concern now is which Mickey Mouse cartoon we'll watch tonight.

Soon, we'll go up to the kitchen to get something "yummy" to eat and then we'll chill in the basement. I'm just amazed at how things have changed so quickly -- how "guys night" has evolved over the years. It certainly wasn't an overnight change, but I wouldn't have it any other way.