Getting through April

As I sit here in a very crowded waiting room outside of the critical care unit waiting with my sister to see Dad, my mind is drawn to my kids. Wondering how they are doing. What are they thinking? How are they dealing with indoor recess? What did they eat for lunch?

And my heart is especially curious about Isaac. He has needed a few extra hugs and snuggles lately. He has asked a lot of extra questions about his birth family. Needed extra explanations about his relationships. Processing things. And he has had questions about life in general.

It was a few weeks ago, and I don’t really remember how the conversation came up. Or what we were talking about before he said it. It might have been about his report card. Or soccer. Or girlfriends. Or gardens. Or worms. Or driving. Or just having his sister home from the hospital—finally. I don’t know. But I do remember the actual conversation. Clearly.

Isaac: (furrowing his brow) “Now, if I could only make it through April.”

Me: (looking at his eyes) “April? Why April?”

Isaac: “Well, I’m not sure if it is April, but I know it’s when the flowers start to pop out of the ground.”

Me: (pulling him close) “What do the flowers coming up have to do with anything?”

Isaac: “I just have a hard time when the flowers come up.”

Me: “How does it make you feel to see the flowers growing?”

Isaac: (taking his time with his answer as he buried his face in my neck, tickling me with his long eyelashes) “Well, I just feel gross inside. Kind of yucky.”

And a bit of my heart broke as I explained some of the mystery for him. Why he feels the way he does in April. That so much happened in his life during the month of April before he could actually form memories of those things. Moving. Foster care. Last visit with Birth Mom. Lots happened. Lots of yucky, out of control things.

So, even though he LOVES to garden. He loves to watch things grow. He loves to be outside with his dad. He loves the flowers. Even though all of those things, he feels yucky inside when the flowers pop out of the ground.

It was an incredibly self-aware thing for him to say. I don’t know if he overheard us last year or if he picked up on it himself. But he knows that when things start to seem new, and when the plants start to grow, he doesn’t feel the happy anticipation of spring’s impending arrival. He feels the pain of loss. The anguish of separation. The uncertainty of being out of control. The anger of not knowing pieces of his own history. In his own desire to make good choices, he has noticed that there is a particular time of year that is very difficult for him.

And really, the connection between growth and pain in his life is really hard for me to reconcile. So yesterday, when my Dad, in utter pain and despair, declared that he didn’t think he would make it through the night, I was heartbroken. Scared to lose my dad. But more scared for my son to lose his Papa.

I know it was the pain, anxiety, and fear talking. That once under control, this infection can be cleared. It wasn't really how my dad feels. I'm not sure he will remember any of it today. His infection is bad. His pain is nearly unbearable. He is scared. And unable to fully comprehend the pain my dad was enduring, I got scared, and I found myself begging God to just leave April alone for Isaac. Let it be. Let him have more time with his Papa.

And then, my Dad looked right at me and said, “What’s really horrible is that I won’t get to spend the summer with Isaac.” He chose his words carefully. Haltingly. Slowly. Taking almost a full minute to utter that one sentence before he broke down in tears. But I was not slow in my reply. “Why not?” I asked. Kristen asked, too. Then I leaned in close, and I explained that he needed surgery so that the infection could go away. That he WOULD be better by summer. That he would FEEL better if he would just let the doctors perform the surgery. But he was confusingly adamant. No surgery. Not without mom. I’m not sure he is even aware of all that he said as Kristen and I stood by his side. But he was fully aware, and very sad, that if he should go last night, that he won’t get another summer with Isaac as his apprentice.

Then the anger started. My anger. At Dad’s pain. And at the confusion as to why he was back in this condition. That he was told he didn’t have kidney stones when in reality he’s got eight of them. And they are wreaking havoc. Causing infection. Even moving into dangerous positions. I’m not sure it is possible or even realistic to be angry at a whole month, but I even got mad at the month of April.

Until Tim and the kids arrived to pick up Kristen and me at the hospital. Downtown traffic was a mess. The kids were hot and tired from playing all afternoon with each other. They all seemed to be thirsty. Especially the little two. But darn it, they were cute. In their tank tops and sundresses and shorts. They seemed as happy to see their moms, as they were to see each other. And I remembered the promise I made to my son: We would get through April together. Helping each other.

Esther-Faith looked out the window and asked if Papa was in the bottom of the hospital or the top. I told her his room number. She concluded that the rest of the very large building must be the gift shop. And Isaac quietly asked how Papa was. If he was okay. And Isaac explained that he has been having good days at school. So, could he please see Papa.

A good day during the month of April is a big deal. On March 31, Tim and I made a huge calendar and fixed  it to the door at the bottom of the stairs. Every evening, Isaac crosses off the day that we just finished. And every morning, he pulls a folded piece of paper with a surprise written on it from an old cardboard box. Tuesday, the reward was three episodes of “I Love Lucy” in a row. Yesterday, he went to Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone. Today, Mama does his chores. Every day will bring a new surprise for a good day.

But I think he would trade them all for just five minutes with Papa.

And then, he explained that he had his report card. Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. The last couple of months have been a bit stressful. For all of us, but especially for him. To have his sister—his best friend—in the hospital. Then Mimi. Then Papa. We didn’t think he gave up, but if his grades dropped, we would not have been surprised.

But his grades did not drop. In fact, he even earned a couple of the elusive grade “4.” Which at Isaac’s school, is the highest grade a student can earn. And they are rare. At the beginning of the year, we were told not to expect to see any. Ever. That a “3” was equivalent to an “A” grade. But Isaac did earn a “4.” And the rest of his grades were 3s—essentially, he earned straight A’s. AGAIN.

And all he wanted to do was tell Papa.

I’m hoping that after his surgery tomorrow morning, and a few hours of rest while the infection starts to heal, that Dad will be up for a visit with Isaac. Because Isaac is bursting at the seams to share some stuff with him. Stuff about report cards and worms and good days and April. And even though it will be in a hospital room, or in a nursing home, all Isaac really cares about is that he will get to see my Dad. His Papa. Not the wheelchair or the pain or the infection or the extra equipment.

It is April. And my boy needs his Papa.

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Isaac sees Papa for the first time after the February hospitalization.

They must have hugged for three full minutes.

The calendar.

April.