the best morning.

You might be lost in reading this post if you haven't read my last two. This is the third post in a series that began with the worst 12 minutes of my life and the longest seven hours of waiting.

As thankful as I was for "idiopathic," I was struck by one thought: for every parent of a child with any special need, they had a moment when they were formally ushered into that world. As I served these families as a teacher and disability ministry leader, I knew that this could be a fluke or this could be our moment when our reality changed.

As I thanked God for providing that insight, I prayed that for the former and pleaded that we wouldn't be facing the latter. As I asked for that, I knew He hadn't said yes to that plea for many families I love, and I knew He had purposes behind every no.

Knowing that, I still wanted the yes.

I waited. I clung to little glimpses of joy, as our sleeping Robbie hit the nurses when they used a catheter for a urine sample and pushed away the oxygen mask when they tried to reposition it. He wasn't awake, but he was responding.

This was a very, very, very good thing.

They wanted to move us to the pediatric floor, but all those rooms were full. So we stayed camped out in the ER. Around 3:30am, one of the nurses brought me a recliner and a blanket. I pushed the chair as close to his bed as I could, to hear and touch and see him and to guarantee that he would see me there as soon as he woke up.

Three hours later, I was crying again as a handsome little fellow woke up angry, not remembering the seizure and trying to tear out his IV and remove all of his tubes and sensors. When I told him that the IV had to stay (letting him remove the sensors because I knew we could easily put those back on), he glowered and shouted, "I want my daddy!" in hopes that Daddy would say yes to taking out the IV.

I have never been so happy to hear those words. It was Thanksgiving Day, in every sense of the word.

When I explained that Daddy was at home and opened my arms wide to him, he flung himself against my chest and snuggled in close. My tears fell on him once again, so thankful that my boy was himself again.

I called for the nurse and soaked in her smile when she saw how well he was doing. When she offered him apple juice, he sassed her. "No! I don't like apple juice, remember?!?" Usually, I would have made him ask nicely for something else, but this was a morning in which I chose to overlook a bit of bratty behavior. She and I just laughed as I told her grape juice would be better.

In between sips of juice, he told the nurse all about our recent visit to the pet store to see lizards. He explained the differences among leopard geckos and skinks and chameleons and bearded dragons. We set up Wild Kratts via Hulu Plus on Lee's work tablet. He convinced the nurse that the oxygen monitor wasn't actually necessary. He tried and failed to do the same with the IV. He showed off his smile and what he calls his "surprised face."

He cheered up considerably when Kiki the Giant Schnauzer came to visit. She and her owner have been coming every Wednesday and almost every holiday for the past five years, and she was the sweetest, most docile beast I've ever met. We watched her through the window until she made it to us, and he was too excited to speak when he finally got to pet her.

We waited to be transferred to a real room, but I no longer cared how long that would take. A friend's friend came on shift as an ER nurse and stopped by to check on us. Robbie ate his breakfast and mine, and then - having eaten too much - threw up again. (That also could have been a side effect of the meds they gave him.) Thankfully, Angie had packed spare underwear for him, we got a new hospital gown, and the nurse stripped and remade his bed.

And we kept waiting, knowing we lived in idiopathic land but also knowing that our biggest concern now was another seizure and not any neurological damage from lack of oxygen during the first one.

Grace.

Part four (discharge!) tomorrow, and then five (what now?) the day after!

the longest seven hours of waiting.

If you missed the first one in this series, you'll have to read this to find out how we got in the ambulance through the worst 12 minutes of my life...

Confession: It's still hard for me to walk into Robbie's room after what happened two days ago.

As the paramedics - who were some of the kindest people I've ever met. more grace. - worked on my unresponsive boy, they asked questions. I answered them as I was prepared to, falling back once again on my training.

They each at different times commented on how well I was doing. I answered with a small nod, not able to put together the words to explain that I was not doing well inside but that I was simply doing what I had been trained to do. My demeanor was no indicator of how I felt but was simply what I knew it needed to be for my boy to get the care he needed.

As the team of responders worked on my son, I reminded them at least a half dozen times that my daughters were still sleeping. I couldn't bear for Jocelyn to wake up and see what I was seeing and then have to leave her to work through that with someone else.

I was thankful when they picked up my boy and carried him through the house, equally relieved that we were getting closer to the hospital with every step and made more comfortable by all those people leaving his bedroom. As I walked down the hall, Angie stood waiting with my shoes and sweater. Both she and Lee had grabbed clothing items and toys and electronics and chargers, all the things we'd like to have in the hospital. (If we ever have to do this again - please, no, Jesus - I'd grab a pillow of my own and change of underwear too. Those were the only things I missed.)

Helpless, I watched them strap him on the stretcher. Helpless, I tried to smile back at Angie so she wouldn't worry, and then immediately realized how weak and worrisome my smile must have looked. Helpless, I hugged my husband and then climbed in the ambulance next to my boy. Helpless, I listened to them quickly discuss the risks and benefits of medicating him right away to stop the seizure or waiting until the hospital so that the doctors there could observe what was happening unmedicated, with a better chance of having immediate answers.

Helpless, I watched them medicate him.

I nodded as they named the hospital. As we rode, I knew that I was living that Bible verse that talks about being unable to pray and the Holy Spirit having to intercede in groans. (Just looked it up. It's Romans 8:26.) I knew I would feel comforted by intercessors with skin on, so I texted our pastor and posted this request on Facebook:

I tried to remember the name of our friend who is an pediatric ER nurse at Wake Med. I could only remember the first sound and that it was unusual, so I texted another friend - who is the niece of that nurse - to ask for the name so I could ask for her when we arrived. I peppered the paramedic with questions about the unfamiliar words I had heard them use, knowing that I would hear those words again and that I would want to be able to decipher doctor-speak later, particularly in the moments when medical professionals talk about your case in the same room as if you don't understand their lingo.

I couldn't do much, but I could learn every bit of that lingo so I could advocate for my tiny patient later.

The paramedic who rode in the back with us was fabulous. As soon as Robbie was stable, she turned her attention to me, answering my questions and offering me water and making sure I was holding up as well as possible, given the circumstances.

I don't know her name, but I'm going to try to figure it out so that I can thank her. She embodied grace in her care for me and understanding that I felt less helpless with each answer.

I was startled when we stopped, realizing that an ambulance can get to the hospital far faster than I thought possible.

I'm not sure how we got from the ambulance to our room in the ER. That part is a blur. Once in the room, we had nearly a dozen people - nurses and doctors and residents and the EMTs and us - gathered around our boy. Soon, Lee and a person from check-in joined us. I signed several papers, and right now I can only remember what one of them was for.

It didn't matter what the papers said. I would have signed anything away to make this night better.

They took blood to check for things like electrolyte imbalances or low blood sugar or vitamin deficiencies. I knew, from his diet that day and daily Flintstones chewable, that those tests would probably show nothing.

Someone explained that we'd be leaving soon for a CT scan, as I expected. I knew what that meant: we're looking for a tumor or other mass of some kind. CT scans can also check for brain injuries or traumas, but Robbie had been with us all day without any bumps to the head or other accidents.

I've never prayed and hoped so much for idiopathic in my life.

You see, idiopathic is a word to hate. It's the fancy term in the medical establishment that says, "We have no answers, but it doesn't look good to write 'hell if we know' on the chart, so we came up with a big long word to say that."

But when you know that the most likely answers that night are "idiopathic" or "tumor," you know which one you want for your boy.

We went down to imaging, my boy on a bed and finally limp as they moved him to the CT scan bed but not reacting as they strapped his head into place. As they did the scan and moved him back to the bed and turned to return to the ER room, the nurse pushing Robbie on his bed and us walking beside him, I knew more than I wanted to know.

Back in the ER room, we sat in chairs next to Robbie's bed, our heads resting on the side rails as Lee prayed. I explained to him all that I knew, letting him know that the results would give us our next steps. If all we had was "idiopathic," he should go home. Jocelyn would be brokenhearted in the morning to know that the trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house was off, and she would be eaten up with anxiety if she realized that something was so wrong with her best friend, her brother, that both Mommy and Daddy had to be in the hospital with him. I let him know that - barring a tumor and probably even if it was one - all I would do is wait for him to wake up, knowing that the drug given to him by the paramedics would keep him asleep until morning. One of us needed sleep and needed to be there for the girls.

In the morning, we would know if we were just concerned about another seizure in the future or if we were in the midst of a much more life-altering reality, all based on whether or not he was himself when he woke up.

The CT scan came back normal: no tumor. The bloodwork came back: nothing abnormal. We'd be admitted and wait for a neurology consult and probably an EEG and an MRI, not knowing the schedule since we were in the wee hours of Thanksgiving Day.

As the resident explained the results and we were thankfully in the land of idiopathic, I kept staring at the logo on his lab coat: NC Children's Hospital. I spent most waking moments in college working on the UNC Dance Marathon, a student-run philanthropy serving the families there. I remember seeking donations by explaining the unexpected realities facing the kids and their parents if they ended up in the excellent care of that hospital. I heard the parents share their stories, and I never, ever, ever thought I'd see that lab coat from the perspective of a parent and not a volunteer.

When we were alone again, Lee jokingly asked if I knew the winning lotto numbers, given how accurate my predictions had been so far. We hugged and kissed. He set me up with the chargers I didn't even know we had, making sure I had my phone and his work tablet to connect me to both the outside world and Netflix. He left in search of caffeine and chocolate for me, a sweet gesture that each of the nurses would comment on in the coming hours.

As he left, I settled into the uncertain wait with my friends Gus, Shawn, and Juliet and my Thanksgiving Day feast of Reese's peanut butter cups and Diet Coke.

Part three to come tomorrow... but remember my spoiler yesterday: Robbie is himself again. Thank you, Jesus.

the worst 12 minutes of my life.

Those of you on Facebook have already gotten the CliffsNotes version of this, but here's the full story. It's graphic in some parts, but it's how our Thanksgiving began...

The day before Thanksgiving, our friend Angie got off early from work and came to hang out with us. Lee was also home early, and he offered to cook up something fancy for dinner. The rest of us went on a walk to pick up my prescription at the drugstore less than a mile from the house. There, I treated the kids to candy for the walk home, and Robbie savored his York peppermint patty while Jocelyn felt like we got a double treat with two peanut butter cups in the Reese's packaging. We sat down at the dining room table for some tasty garlic Parmesan chicken and pasta, and we all had seconds.

It was a delightfully normal day.

I had a rare evening cup of coffee while Angie and I chatted and Lee put all the kiddos to bed. After a bit, we moved to the family room and kept chatting while I sorted laundry. Eventually, Angie joined me in some of the sorting. (How blessed am I? A friend who doesn't mind helping me sort laundry and a husband who handles bedtime most nights, even on nights when he also cooks dinner. So much more than I deserve!)

As we chatted, time got away from us. I didn't look at the clock, but it was a little after 11 when Angie thought she heard one of the kids. I know the time in hindsight, because I can backtrack from the time when I pulled out my phone 25 minutes later to post this:

I hadn't heard what Angie heard, so we were quiet for a moment as we listened for other noises. None came, so we went back to our conversation. And then, five minutes after we paused our chat to listen for sounds, we heard a weird, other-worldly noise that I can only describe as part gurgling and part choking and part growling. As my eyes connected with Angie's, I know my face mirrored her expression that something was terribly wrong.

I sprang up and headed down the hall, Angie behind me. Realizing the noise came from Robbie's room, I rushed to him. His face was partially smothered against a pillow, his bed and his body covered in vomit. As he flailed his arms and legs and looked dazed, I moved that pillow and spoke comforting words to him and thought, "Poor thing! It's an awful feeling to wake up by throwing up." I quickly grabbed a clean blanket, laid it on the floor so that I wouldn't have to clean the carpet as thoroughly if he got sick again, and I scooped him up to move him to the ground.

Except he wasn't scoop-able. You can scoop something soft or relaxed or loose, like a limp child who feels miserable with a stomach bug.

You can't scoop a child whose torso is stiff and rigid and whose legs and arms are convulsing rhythmically. You can't comfort a child who is not conscious or responsive even though his eyes are wide open, staring through the world as though he is absent from it.

I knew. I'm trained as a special needs professional to know.

My boy was having a seizure.

I thought, "No, this isn't my child who should be having a seizure. Zoe's cerebral palsy makes her more likely to do this. Robbie is not my kid with special needs." As my heart crushed with the full realization of all I know about seizures (for example, they can be a one-time fluke following a head injury or during a fever or other illness and are much more likely to recur if factors like those aren't present... and? none of those factors were part of this case), my training kicked in.

Ask someone to go get help. Roll person to side. Move anything potentially dangerous so the person can't injure himself. Finger-sweep person's mouth and use a bulb syringe to suction their nose to remove the vomit and reduce respiratory distress. Observe closely because most seizures are too short for emergency personnel to see them, and you'll have to describe it to them. Have someone call 911. Wait next to the person because there's nothing else you can do until after the seizure is over.

Except no training can prepare anyone for "the person" being your healthy, vibrant, cheerful, lizard-loving, cuddly boy who is unresponsive as he thrashes on the floor next to you.

Nothing in my first aid certifications ever mentioned that my tears would be falling on "the person" as my friend prays over us and admits to God that she doesn't know what to ask him for in that awful, awful moment.

No one expects "the person" to be your only son.

The training particularly stings when you know, as the minutes creep by, that your son is seizing far longer than the typical seizure. The training rips your soul when you know that your son could have been deprived of oxygen as he was unable to remove himself from the pillow when his face was pressed against it and his mouth full of the earlier meal. The training lets you know that the person won't react at all as the paramedics put his IV in, but they don't tell you that you'll hope against that knowledge, aching for it to be different this time because "the person" is your son. The training says nothing about your friend having to physically pull a sweater over your head because you're too limp and helpless to put it on yourself as you are relieved by the EMTs who carry this boy who looks like yours but isn't acting like yours out onto a stretcher.

This story is full of grace, yes, like the preciousness of having Angie there to get Lee for me when I knew Robbie was seizing and to pray over us and to get my shoes and to pack other items and then to stay with the girls as we headed to the hospital.

Like the girls only stirring slightly and not fully waking up in the midst of the chaos.

Like the protection of God having us in the family room where we would hear Robbie, when I would usually be in our bedroom at that time of night, out of earshot for anything quieter than a cry.

Like the knowledge and skills He had provided me with in advance so I knew how to identify the seizure and what to do with that information.

Like the toys we had by the door to bring to Grandma and Grandpa's house for the holiday but which Angie threw in our bag, in hopes that Robbie would be himself again to enjoy them.

Like the realization, even as I climbed in that ambulance and watched them medicate my son to stop the seizure that had lasted at least 12 minutes and as many as 17 minutes, that God's grace was all over this situation.

As Robbie's eyes closed with the peace brought on by Versed and as I knew that he wouldn't wake from it until morning and that - given the possibility of oxygen deprivation - he might never be fully himself again, I clung to that grace as we raced toward the hospital and complete uncertainty.

Part two tomorrow... but I'll give away the spoiler that Robbie is himself again now. Grace.

Solid resources that are FREE? Inclusion Fusion (all week) and the book Trusting God by Jerry Bridges (on Kindle today)

Want to equip yourself or families you love as you work together to include people of all abilities in the local church? Here are two phenomenal resources that are FREE:

• Inclusion Fusion is up and running for the second year, now through this Friday. It's an online, video-on-demand special needs ministry conference where you can watch a little or a lot... whatever suits your needs and interests. I wasn't able to record a video this time around, but several folks who I know and respect are represented - including John Knight from Desiring God, Mike Beates who wrote Disability and The Gospel (which I'll be reviewing soon), Katie Wetherbee who is speaking about the needed topic of bullying, and Cara Daily whose presentation last year on autism was the most helpful one of the conference to me personally. Here's a post on how Inclusion Fusion works.
• One of my favorite theological books of all time, Jerry Bridges' Trusting God: Even When Life Hurts, is free on Kindle today. Even if you don't have a Kindle, buy the hard copy. This is a book that EVERY ministry leader, especially those wading through life's hurts with those they serve, needs to have (and I also recommend it to any person wading through those hurts, leader or not). It's neither shallow nor dense, and his writing style is easy to read while sorting through difficult topics in the Bible and life. Read it, and be fed and encouraged.

Thanks for your continued prayers for our family. Zoe has been home for four months, we're well into physical and occupational therapy for her, and our house is nearly unpacked from our spring move... in other words, life is almost as normal as it gets around here, so regular posts on the blog should resume soon.