Orange

Drained.

Sometimes regular life just leaves you feeling drained. We’re at the end of a long month, and finally feeling, hoping, praying that we’re on an upswing.

Along with the busyness that Christmas brings, we had five doctor visits, four respiratory infections/viruses, two ear infection, possible strep throat, a sprained back, and just when we thought we were through it, a GI bug attacked out of no where and with a vengeance.

My little lady woke up the night after our final Christmas celebration in pool of vomit which turned into vomiting every ten minutes for the next three hours which led to a trip to the Emergency Room at 1:00 in the morning. After some medicine to stop the vomiting, a force fed popsicle, instructions for dehydration and a prescription for recurrent vomiting, we were discharged. But not before, this nasty bug decided to jump human and wreak havoc on the two of us as well. The next day, all four us us were down with it.

This isn’t a complaining post. Yeah, it’s been frustrating and inconvenient. Yes, the laundry has blown way past the out-of-control stage. Yeah, the Christmas toys are sitting untouched.

And yes, the refrigerator is full of decaying leftovers. But, while this month, especially these last few days, have been hard and tiring and miserable, we still recognize just how lucky we are.

Our counter has been lined with medicines, both over the counter and prescription that we not only have access to it, but have a means to pay for. Our doctors are a quick drive away and if they are closed, we have Urgent Care, or in the middle of the night, the hospital.

Medical care isn’t a worry.

Our home is warm. Whether we are chilled or sweating, we have clothing, blankets, soft beds to sleep in, fans, popsicles, ice cream, fuzzy socks, and cozy furniture in front of our movie (or Peppa Pig) marathons and fire place.

Comfort isn’t a worry.

We have people we can depend on to tag team cleaning vomit, to sleep on the couch when we leave in the middle of the night, to bring us Sprite and crackers and soup, to take turns napping and bring extra blankets, to wipe tears and toilet bowls. We have people.

Care isn’t a worry.

Perhaps most of all we have an abundance of love. Hugs and sweaty forehead kisses. Relentless questions from a mom to a son about how he’s feeling. Head rubs and shoulders. Sharing beds and rubbing backs. Texts to see how we’re doing. Couch snuggles all day. Trips to the store when we’re too unsettled to leave the house. Inside this house and out, love and safety pours in.

Love isn’t a worry.

D and I were sitting in bed that night with our sick little, keeping her upright when all she wanted was to lay down. A towel tucked under her chin awaiting what hadn’t stopped recurring every few minutes. She was the bravest little thing, waking up to vomit, looking at us with wide eyes, that quickly closed again as she slumped back against me. I brushed back her hair that was still damp and smelly from what I’d previously tried to wash out. We worried over her and prayed and maybe one of us snapped at the other about staying calm.

It was a long few hours, interrupted often by her sickness. But in that time, a quick conversation took place, thoughts that we were both thinking in one form or another, that settled hard in my heart and left me with perspective.

There are people who deal with these things, without all the blessings we’ve been given. There are people in this world who die from the same things we dealt with this month. There are people in this world that deal with these things alone; no help, no medicine. There are children in this world who spend a night like our little girl, but do it without love, comfort, parents, assistance.

In an orphanage like those we will be adopting from, if a child was sick like this, would anyone change her sheets in the middle of the night? Would anyone sit her on the sink and whisper that it’s going to be ok while they cleaned the curdled milk chunks from her hair and face? Would they change her clothes? Would they hold her even though she smelled and kiss her warm cheeks? Would they sit with her while her little body fought against the infection and heaved over and over? Would they stay up with her? Would they call the doctor? Would she feel safe enough to ever fall back asleep, knowing she was cared for no matter what happened next?

The answer, most likely, is no.

A hard, heavy fact settled in my heart.

There is a very real possibility that our future son or daughter has already been born. Meaning that he/she is already laying somewhere in an orphanage, and could be experiencing the exact horror D and I discussed as as we sat in our bed with our baby girl.

It’s an actuality I knew, but hadn’t ‘felt’ until this month with my family. It’s another feeling for me to compartmentalize in the “I DON’T REALLY KNOW HOW TO DEAL WITH THIS” box. Our child somehow became a little bit more real in my heart this month. And right now, that reality kind of emphasizes my need to cling on to my babies and my family support, and also deepens my hurt for the possible life the child we’ve yet to meet could be living at this moment.

I know how much work we have ahead of us this year to prepare. My mind, swirling as it does, is formulating a plan to balance productivity toward the future and presence the moment. I’m excited. I’m anxious. I’m nervous. I am so ready.

I have a new folder on my phone. Green heart has always been for my son and his apps. My daughter has claimed the Purple heart folder.

And now I have an Orange and it looks just right!