red elevators

// I wrote this on my phone last night after Ivy's surgery. //

I took the red elevator tonight to the first floor for an evening walk around the hospital. I came out to the emergency entrance, walking past a sign that instructs patients to use the blue elevators, not the red. I've walked past these elevators before. A couple times when Avery had a high fever that wouldn't quit, and once with Eliza for the same. I never paid attention to these red elevators because I didn't need to know where they went. Today I rode them. Today I needed the red elevators.

I remember early visits to the cranio clinic that was at the hospital for Ivy. We only took the green elevators. I remember coming in the wrong entrance and having to walk through the hospital part, to get to the clinic. I held my baby tightly as gurneys rode past, with weeping parents following. I was sad for the moms being held under the arms of their husbands. What did their kid need? Why were they here? Does their kid have craniosynotosis? I'm glad I'm not them.

I walked that same hall tonight, except at 11:30pm. No one around, no doctors in scrubs quickly walking through; a calm take on a space that will be bustling in a few hours. I was in search of a snack, but really a change of scenery from dings and beeps that made me more stressed than anything. And for a mom of three, a night in the PICU is like free babysitting. You know what I mean. 

I walked to a room of vending machines, decided on orange juice and white cheddar cheez-its, and late night with Seth Meyers was on, and I just wished it was Jimmy Fallon. I sat alone at a table, and read the menu for tomorrow and realized it was my first time being alone. And I cried, and cried and cried.

How did this day just happen? How are we already on the other side of this? How did my brave baby do something so incredible I can barely finish a sentence without crying? I sat at this table and said over and over, "Thank you Jesus. This is all I've ever wanted."

After my snack, I wiped my tears and headed back to my baby. Isn't that the thing with free babysitting? You can't wait to get back to them. As I walked back, I thought of those parents I saw months ago again. They looked so sad, but they might feel like I feel tonight; Amazing. Relieved. Like nothing is too big for God. That their child is a hero, a brave little warrior. Maybe they were actually happy.

A security guard asked, "Where you heading, darling?" I replied, "The red elevators." That means something here. Taking those elevators means your baby needs a lot of love tonight. "You're almost there, hon."

And we are. We are almost there, turning the corner through Ivy's journey with craniosynotosis. Walking into the unknown has shaken me, but has marked me. My God has been the rock on which we are standing. He is our refuge.

The support and love we have received through Facebook, emails, Instagram, etc. has been unbelievable. I'm convinced that 500 people were praying for Ivy today. I have never been so touched by life as I am today. Today was the most terrifying day of my life. It also is the best day of my life. To think I lived it, that I went to dark places of fear and anxiety and then found myself physically unable to not hug the reconstructive surgeon after he said those words I had played over and over in my head, "She did great." That happened today. I'm so grateful for every part of it. 

//Now, Ivy has a road of recovery to come, but she will now grow properly from here on out. Please pray for her, for the swelling of her head, the bruising around her eyes; we should be in the hospital for a few more days. Pray for peace in those days to come. //