The Day the Linen Closet Died

So. Many. Boxes. Just dropped off in my living room and I was expected not only to know how to use the items inside, but also to find a spot big enough to store them in an organized fashion so all the many [many!] hands working in my home would know where to find the supplies they needed.

That’s how this thing works. You take a baby home on a ventilator and the housewarming gift you receive is the presence of a DME (Durable Medical Equipment) company and all of their “goodies” being offloaded to you. A welcome offering. A tease of what the next decade or more (if you’re lucky) will bring. Loads of supply shipments – chux pads, ventilator circuits, suction catheters, pulse oximeter probes.

And so begins the “overtaking of all the space” movement for families like mine. Our home is now a PICU Omnicell. The storage for beautiful guest towels and extra bedding is replaced with bins and tubs attacked by a label maker. Organization is key when there are staff members working in your home around the clock and they all have to access the closet – previously known as your beautiful linen closet – to do their job.

Labels read “Suction Canisters” “Gloves” “Oxygen Tubing” “Vent Filters” – This is your life now. Welcome to it.

I caught a glimpse of our linen closet last night. The door was open and the hall light was on. I just sat and stared at it for a long moment. I pondered out loud to Ryan, “I wonder what normal people have in their hall linen closets?”

We’ve lost our garage space, our hall closet space, our kitchen cabinets, our pantry. It’s all dedicated to storing and organizing all the equipment required to keep a human alive. We trip over bikes in our garage because we have no place for them, since the bike storage is taken over by catheters and sterile water. We keep an Instapot on top of our dryer because an entire kitchen cabinet is full to the max of meds, syringes and ports. We hide PT benches and equipment behind our couch so we appear “normal” when people come over.

It’s an odd feeling to contemplate what a normal house would look like, knowing that if you had a “normal house” it would be because your child wasn’t living in it with you.

In random moments like this – catching a glimpse of a linen closet in the light or seeing your neighbor’s tidy garage while you’re out on a walk – that you evaluate what your priorities are. Sure, I would love a Home & Gardens Home, but that wasn’t in the cards for me. Learning what you have to let go of helps you realize what you want to hold on to.

Our house isn’t perfect, but it’s full of sweet memories and little people and loads of {loud} fun. And honestly, I think I like that more than a house that looks like a Container Store show room.

The Old Ball and Chain…

At weddings. At restaurants. At church. At family reunions. At birthday parties. Name an event. Name a place. It’s there. The ball and chain is there. It never stops and it never goes away. When you just fell asleep. When you just sat down to a hot meal. When you just got into a good conversation with a friend. When your kid wants to cuddle with you. The ball and chain wins every.single.time. It owns you. You do what it says and you do it quickly. 

Pulse oximeter: a medical device that indirectly monitors the oxygen saturation of a patient’s blood and changes in blood volume in the skin

Translation: ball and chain

My son has been on constant pulse ox monitoring for 11 years, three months, and 17 days. 96, 832 hours the pulse ox has been monitoring him. (Give or take a shower or two.) That’s 96,832 hours my ears have been listening to see if my son needs me. I’ve been on call for some 96,000 hours. For all of this time, Hayden has had a pulse ox on his toe revealing to us what he needs. If he sats too low, he needs more oxygen. If he sats too high, he needs less oxygen. If his heart rate is too high, he may have fever or have distress somewhere in his body. If his heart rate is too low, he may be sleeping too hard and needs to be stimulated. There has been an occasion or two where the pulse ox saturation number read as a dotted line during emergency events while I was actively bagging him, breathing for him to try to keep him alive until the ambulance arrived. But more often, the pulse ox is just there as an appendage reminding us that Hayden is still alive, still breathing, heart still beating. 

The pulse ox and I have a love/hate relationship. Essentially, it loves to do its job and do it well; I hate it and cannot stand the sound of it beeping. Yet every time, I get up. I go to it when it calls me. It beckons, and I come running. It is a necessary evil. Its annoying beeps remind me that my son is alive and breathing and that his heart is beating, which is a blessing. I know many, many mommas who would give anything to hear their child’s pulse ox alarming just one more time. And so, I will adjust my posture from one of annoyance, to that of gratefulness that my son and all of his equipment is still here with me, for today. To those mommas out there who no longer have your child’s equipment beckoning you, I honor you. I see you. I respect you. I love you. You and your child are teaching me. 

Is there something in your own life that you need to change your posture about? What is it that needs a perspective shift? You can choose that change. Right now, this minute. You get to decide your mindset about it. Is there something in your life that is a constant irritant, but if you could just take a step back you could label it as a blessing rather than a hindrance? Do it. Embrace it now. Don’t let another day pass before you learn to relish the ball and chain. 

That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

2 Corinthians 12:10