paradox

I haven't got much to say. The past couple of weeks have wrenched my heart out and then replaced it so tenderly back into my chest that I don't know whether it's still beating inside me anymore.

Vincent is still here, and our options for getting him home are quickly running out as he gets weaker every day. We sent another pregnant teenager home to face her family with nothing but an appointment after her first trimester and the prayer that there will be an anesthetist who'll be willing to tackle her case then.

And yet. Michael got his chemo this afternoon, the partnership with the local hospital finally having come together and allowing his mama the chance to finally hope again. There are little kids in casts all over the ward who want nothing more than to colour. All. day. long. (It's true; when asked for examples of methods of pain management during an in-service with an anesthetist this evening, the first thing I thought to blurt out was, Colouring books! They laughed at me, if you can believe it.)

I'm coming to realize all over again that this is the rhythm of things around here. That some days will be so incredibly painful that the last thing I want to do is face another one. And other times my heart will be bursting with love because a fuzzy-headed baby drops his cheek to my shoulder and snuggles in tight, cooing back at me as I sing crazy, made-up songs. And there's no way to tell which kind of day it's going to be, so the only thing to do is get in my scrubs, find a matching headband and go to work.

It might hurt, but it might just be the best thing that's ever happened to me.