Everyone has a story

We sat in the empty pre-op room picking at the tasteless snacks the hospitality cart had delivered minutes earlier.  I stared out the large window at the grey winding sidewalk in front.  A young mother and father with a tiny baby in a carrier.  They looked lost.  A hurried hospital worker carrying a clipboard and a bag.  A mother with a ruddy faced toddler waddling happily at her side.  This, I thought, was a place filled to the brim with emotion.  Some families were experiencing the miracle of good news, a second chance at life.  Some families, I thought, are feeling life coming to an end.

The doctor hustled down the hallway.  "It went well," she says upon seeing us.  He'll be waking up shortly.  

"Can we see it?" I ask nodding my head towards the contents in her hands.  A bag with a vile of blood, two long, cylinders with clear liquid resting at the bottom of each.  In her right hand she holds a cup filled with ice, nestled in the ice are two small vials.  Our son's spinal fluid.  

Only 3 weeks earlier Nick had undergone an EMG to test the muscles in his legs. Approximately 15 minutes of shocks and 15 minutes of needles into his muscles.  (The versed kicked in just as the test was completed.)  The only thing the doctor could tell us from the results was what it wasn't.  But, she assured us, it is something.  A neuromuscular disease of some sort. 

"How long until we know?"  Nick asked today in the recovery room.

"About 3 weeks."

"Oh good.  That gives us longer to pray."

  

And so our story continues.