On Not Being Thankful Yet

A video went viral recently.  In it a hearing-impaired baby boy has his cochlear implant device turned on for the first time.  He hears his mother’s voice and immediately smiles, his whole body reacting in pure joy.  It is a heartwarming moment at its core and it’s no wonder that the video has been shared so many times.

When I saw it I felt a strange sense of frustration and annoyance.

Last week Monster received the same implant as the baby in the video.  His device hasn’t been turned on yet so for now we’re just in that middle place, post-op but pre-new hearing.

I saw this video a day or two after Monster’s surgery.  The frustration lingered, turning into anger.  It took me a while to put my finger on why exactly I felt this way.  It’s a joyful video, the way this baby turned to his mother’s voice, the smile that emerged as she continued talking.  There was nothing in this that should elicit the kind of dull rage I found myself experiencing.

And then, as I wrestled Toots into her clothes one morning about a week and a half post surgery, I realized the source of my bitterness.  I was frustrated because that video made me feel like I had to celebrate a decision I was still grieving.  I wasn’t ready to celebrate this miracle of technology that allowed my son to hear.  I wasn’t ready to be thankful for it.  I was still mourning the reality that my son needed this technology to hear in the first place.  I was still digesting the fact that the hearing aids were no longer enough.  I was still grieving the choices I didn’t want to have to make.

While well-meaning people on Facebook cheered and celebrated the miracle technology that allowed a nine-month-old they’ve never met to hear his mother’s voice, I was mourning because my three year old couldn’t hear my voice well enough without it.  And every share and “oh wow” comment made me feel guilty for being so ungrateful.

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I feel for the device as I wash Monster’s hair now.  The bathtub is the only place he’ll allow anyone to touch the strange, dense bump protruding from his head.  It’s circular, the size of a quarter only much, much thicker.  It’s hard and it hurts my stomach to touch it.  I don’t think it hurts him, but for some reason it pains me, this intruder budging out above his ear, threatening to burst through the skin.

There is a foreign object in my son’s head.  And I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

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In the aftermath of the surgery I found myself steeling for people’s inquiries about the implant.  Inevitably someone would bring up the YouTube video and marvel about how wonderful it all was.  Usually I put on a happy face and agreed that yes it was wonderful.  Yes we were lucky. 

There is a foreign object in my son’s head and I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

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My brother and sister were asking about the implant, how it works, what it is.  At one point I explained that Monster had a magnet in his head now and my brother perked up.

“There’s a magnet in his head?  Oh man, now he can never use a compass.  What if he wanted to be an explorer?  Wait.  There’s a magnet in his head.  Can we test it?  Will stuff stick to his head?”

I told him that when Monster was nine and wanted to show off for his friends he could test it, but I wasn’t willing to get out the fridge magnets and see what happened.  Outwardly I laughed with my siblings, knowing that they love my kid and they mean no harm.  Inwardly though I wondered if that would be Monster’s party trick.  Would he be the kid who could stick stuff to his head?   I pictured him at a sleepover, laughing with his friends as they placed magnetic objects on his head.  I couldn’t decide if that image made me laugh or feel profoundly sad…

There is a foreign object in my son’s head and I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

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I know one day I will be thankful.  One day I will feel right about this decision.  I will celebrate the miracle technology that helps my son hear his mother’s voice.  I know this because one day I was thankful for his hearing aids.  One day they were just a normal part of him and he looked a little strange without them. 

But I’m just not there yet.

The “buck up and carry on” voice reminds me how good we have it.  That in the grand scheme of things this is really very small.  He is alive and well.  He will overcome the challenges his hearing loss throws at him.  There are far, far worse things he could be dealing with.  I nod quietly with this voice and try to be thankful.  Try to keep perspective.

But I’m also holding space for the soft, tender part of my heart that breaks still.   I’m giving it room to grieve and lament, to feel a little ill when my fingers run over the foreign intruder just above my son’s left ear.  I know there will be a “one day.”  And I know that it’s not today.  This season is for heartache and sorrow and I’m going to hold space for it.  It won’t be forever but it is for right now. 

There is a foreign object in my son’s head and I’m not ready to be thankful for it yet.

And that’s ok.

What Happened in Nashville

I had been praying for weeks that the time would be both sacred and irreverent.  The Thirtieth Birthday Tour was born in book club over a year ago.  A trip to celebrate the big 3-0.  A trip to celebrate the 12 years of friendship between us.  A trip to make memories for the years ahead. 

In our early dreaming stages it was to be an epic adventure, eight women and an RV from Chicago to Nashville with cowboy boots and coordinating fringe.  In reality it became six women in a rented mini van and two more joining via Southwest Airlines.  Playlists were made and old mix CD’s dug up from the early 2000’s in preparation.  Cowboy boots were packed and the coordinating fringe became a realized dream (thank you Whit).

These eight women were my people in college. Miraculously we have maintained connection throughout the years since we parted ways after graduation.  While some have moved away and some I still see every month at book club, I always look forward to any amount of time with all of them.  These days that only seems to happen when someone gets married.

In Nashville we enjoyed extended quality time together.  We enjoyed staying out late and sleeping in.  We ate weird food at weird times and drank beer out of plastic cups in dive bars.  We hopped in and out of every Honky-Tonk on Broadway, accumulating more stamps on our hands than a twenty one year old on her birthday.  We resurrected our college selves.  Shedding our wife and mother skins, our career and “grown up” coats, we lived, for just a few days, like we were back in the responsibility free days of our youth.

And it felt good to resurrect my college self.  In the eight years since graduation I’ve moved so far from the rhythms and modes of that world.   At its core college was, for me, about my friendships.  I’d forgotten just how much fun it is to have inside jokes created out of the random moments of simply being together.  Or to get ready for a night out in a room full of other girls, sharing jewelry and shoes and curling irons.  Or to poke random guys’ butts in bars and feign ignorance when they look around confused.  (What?!  As a married, thirty-year-old youth pastor and mother of two I certainly would never do that, but I can imagine that it would be a lot of fun.)  It felt good to organize my life around my comrades, even for just a weekend.

These days life contains responsibilities and work schedules.  We’ve married new best friends that don’t want to share clothes with us and wouldn’t look good in them anyway.  Peers are still an incredibly important part of the picture but they’ve shifted away from that center spot they once held during our years dedicated to higher learning.  This is a necessary part of moving on in life but that doesn’t make it any less of a bummer when you realize the adjustment has happened.

By far my favorite, favorite part of the weekend (aside from the 18 year old kid giving me a high five for being hot) was the time we spent on Saturday night celebrating and loving each other with words.  Whit had created a lovely way for us to do this with a writing prompt for each girl.    There were a few simple prompts: five words to describe so and so, when I first met so and so I thought, I’m so proud of so and so because, etc.  We spent six hours on Saturday taking turns sharing these prompts for each person.  For someone like Tommy that is an uncomfortable amount of feelings time, but I loved every minute.  I loved being able to look these women in the eyes and tell them who I’ve seen them become, what they mean to me, and why they make me proud.  I loved hearing what others treasured about each person.  I loved honoring that unique and precious point in time where our paths intersected and we changed each other.

My best-loved prompt was “_________ has taught me so much about…”  It stirred something in me to hear what we’ve all taught each other.  Some lessons were all encompassing, taught by one’s character.  Some stemmed from specific, defining moments in the friendship.  They all reminded me that friends are life’s most important teachers.  This truth is evident in my life.  My people shaped and continue to transform who I am as a person.  I learn from them everyday.  It is what I celebrate most in women.  At our best, in our most vulnerable and profound moments, we are the very best teachers for each other. 

What happened in Nashville was that, for a few days, we lived as though we were eighteen again.  Our independence was high, our responsibility low and our friends were the most important part of our day.  We remembered who we were before we became who we are.  As the eight of us enter into this new decade it felt good to pay a little homage to the twenties.  The twenties are hard and strange and sometimes very awkward.  While I’m excited for my thirties, for the freedom I feel in my own skin, I know I wouldn’t have gotten here without enduring my twenties.  And I know that surviving the past twelve years wouldn’t have been possible without my friends.

coordinating fringe ya'll