Running Low

"I will put my underwear on, mom, I promise!" rants Atrain behind his closed bedroom door. And then--clunk--another heavy object (probably one of his cars) collides with the wooden barrier between he and I. "Why is it so hard to take that kid out of the bathtub," I wonder. Just moments before this he was giggling with defiance, running naked--and deaf--down our hall. I hate bath time. Nothing about motherhood makes me want to pull my hair out more than trying to force Atrain into clothing when he is silly, defiant, can't hear a thing that I say, and totally taking advantage of it.

It was the perfect ending to a perfectly frustrating day. Today was round two of Atrain's cochlear implant programming up north. It took me three hours to drop off baby J at Famous and Pance Farmstrong's home last night, and an early morning drive two hours north to the audiologist, five different attempts at cochlear programming games, three bribery pep talks and two walks around the building--just to sit there and watch Atrain implode while he exclaimed, "I don't want to!" Why, you ask? I believe the fact that baby J got to spend the night at the Farmstrong household was at the heart of it all. Atrain believed he should be there too, and there is no way to force a child to effectively participate in cochlear implant programming if they don't want to. The accuracy of a CI map can't hinge on the mood of a 3 year old--and yet, it must. So, we called it a loss, rescheduled, and drove another three hours to pick up baby J. When we finally arrived, Atrain was in heaven.

It's so hard to keep my head screwed tightly on my shoulders on days like today. Sometimes I feel like I have sticks of dynamite shoved down my throat, and my kids are having a ball lighting the wicks and watching momma attempt to keep the explosions contained within her. I remember seeing the look on my father's face whenever he was trying to disguise the chaos rumbling inside him--his eyes bulging with annoyed frustration, unable to look directly at our guilty little faces, using calm words, but occasionally pounding his fist against a wall, and always carrying lead feet as he walked away. Now I know why. I just wish I had a staircase to stomp up and down.

There were a couple of redeeming moments today that mended my muddled mind. On the way back from the appointment we stopped at "Old McDonalds" to get a happy meal, hoping to glean a little joy from its contents. It did not disappoint. The toy was a karate Power Ranger character that kept Atrain contently imagining battle scenes all the way to the Francypants household. The second, and most healing occurrence, was when we arrived to pick up Jdog. When he heard my voice from the other room he immediately started crying. I ran to him, scooped him out of his high chair where he was previously feasting on peaches, and held him against my chest as he pawed my hair and clasped onto my shoulders. He was so happy to see me.

That feeling filled my tank. Even now, as I listen to him whine (now clothed and in bed) about going to bed, I remember those chubby little arms squeezing my neck. Jdog sure loves me. It's all I have to call this day a success.

The Question

Just a few minutes ago Atrain asked me a question that I have been waiting for him to ask me for a few years. We finished our nightly routine: read our scriptures, said our prayers, read a book and made small talk about the day. And then, I kissed him and asked--as I do every night--if he will hand me his cochlears. He looked at me with a small, thoughtful smile and asked,

"Mom, why do I have cochlears?"

My heart filled with love and confidence. I could feel God helping me through the conversation I have been thinking about ever since I held my 5 week old baby with bright red, glowing hearing aids on.

"Some boys and girls have cochlears, and some don't," I said. "Just like some boys and girls have glasses and some don't--some babies need cochlears and some need glasses."

"What do you think about that?" I asked.

"When I take off my cochlear," he said as he proceeded to remove the coil from his head, "I can't hear on that side...watch...hear?"

"Yep." I said. "And did you know that when you were a baby and you didn't have cochlears to hear, God told me that you are so special...and that you would be blessed to hear so well with cochlears."

My heart burned within me and I could feel my eyes start to well up with tears as God reminded me, again, how special the boy staring at me really is. Atrain was nodding his head as he listened intently to every word.

"God loves you so much, Atrain. Ever since you were little, God has told me how much he loves you and how good and special you are." I said.

Atrain grinned kindly and he said, "And when you grow little, you can have cochlears too."

"Maybe," I responded, "I would love to have cochlears, but I will never get to grow little like you...just bigger."

"Then when you are big, you can have cochlears too" he added, and then continued to let me into his world. "And look, when both cochlears are off, it's really hard to hear," he said as he took both off. I mouthed, "wow" at him, and he quickly put them back on with a smile.

"How does that feel?" I asked, honestly curious.

He thought for a moment, and then said, "Kinda scary."

My stomach got a little heavy when those words came so clearly out of his mouth, but I could feel the Spirit move our conversation along. "But momma and daddy are always here, and you are so brave, Atrain. You are the bravest, strongest boy that I know," I said.

"Look!" he said as he flexed his muscles and made a fierce, fighting face. "I am strong."

"I know. I'm so proud of you. And God knows that you are so strong. You make me strong" I said and let a few tears go. "That's a happy tear."

Atrain smiled at me and gave me the biggest hug. I am so proud of that little boy. And tonight during our conversation I was reminded just how much God is aware of him and aware of my mothering needs. I was impressed by how simple, but profound our conversation was. I hope I can raise Atrain to understand what Christ meant when he commanded us to "love thy neighbor as thyself"--a commandment that I am constantly working on. There are all kinds of people in this world, and we need to work to understand and rejoice in our differences and develop empathy for each other's challenges. Atrain doesn't fully understand the challenges ahead of him, just as I can't fully grasp the challenges ahead of me. But, I know that God does. He can help us "turn the other cheek." He can teach us true charity. And, he can prepare us for whatever is to come.

Completely Uncool

I watched the Hawaina boys today: the four sons of my cousin Kanada. I adore them. They are so full of fun, ideas, energy, and desire. Atrain looks forwards to every opportunity to be with them; he watches them so closely and wants so much to be a full fledged member of their inner circle whenever we are there. The Hawaina boys are good boys--worthy of his adoration. Whenever we are there the boys always make Atrain feel like the coolest cousin around.

But today a very uncool moment made me swell with angst and anger. It wasn't the boys' fault. It was a nosy little neighbor girl that made me feel like a roaring, mean mother bear. After lunch I let the boys open the front door and ride their scooters around the sidewalk circle while I washed off a few dishes. It didn't take me long--maybe three minutes before I joined them. But, the moment I walked through the door I regretted every minute: there was Atrain, standing still on his scooter, looking down at the sidewalk while a nine(ish) year old girl examined his implants while cousin Gav stood nearby.

"Hey!" I shouted, with probably a little more force than necessary. Immediately the two older kids looked my way and guilt swept over their faces. They took their hands off Atrain's cochlears and my little man rode away. But, I pursued the situation, trying to control fire burning in my mind. "What are you doing, guys?" I said, with a contrived calm tone. "She asked, 'what are those things,' so I told her about his cochlears," said eight year old Gav. I looked at the little girl and said curtly, "Did you ask Atrain for permission to touch him?" She gave me a sheepish smile and said, "No." I responded with a blunt, angry tone, "You never do that. It's really rude to touch anyone's cochlears without asking. It's like me sticking my finger in your ear without permission--and still I would never do that."

She looked a little sorry, but something in me mead me want to grab her elbow and stomp her over to her front door to let her mother know what had just happened. But I held back on account of her being just a curious kid; but as I write this I'm wondering if I should have pounded on her front door and congratulated her mother for raising such a rude child. But I didn't know her mother, and I didn't want Atrain to see me making even more of a scene. Further embarrassment on his part was unnecessary. And I could tell by the way he rode his scooter away from the scene of the crime that he was unsure of what to think about what had just happened, and needed a good, loving conversation about saying "no" when others touch us in unwarranted ways.

So, I said to the little girl, "Please don't ever do that again, to anyone whose body looks a little different than yours." And then she responded with the absolute worst phrase a sorry little girl could have muttered, "He has a hearing problem, right? That poor little boy." I was astonished. "What?!" I said, confused and surprised again by her stupid remark. "Did you even talk to him? Probably not, because if you did you would have noticed that he can talk and hear as well as you." And then I stopped myself, realizing that I was taking the whole thing a little too personally.

But how could I not? I hate moments like that. I hate knowing that there will be more of them--especially more when I will not be there to scold the ignorant little gremlins. I know it's rude for me to speak that way about another child, but I don't care right now. Every chance I get when Atrain and I are asked questions about his cochelars, I try to defer the answer to him with hopes that it will help build his confidence to respond to curious kids in the future. But I guess we need to revise our game plan to screen for the inevitable impolite, improper and downright rude comments and gestures. Too bad I can't screen him from everything forever.

The husband swore when I told him what happened, and then agreed that we need a family home evening lesson next week about self respect, and what to do when others don't respect your self. I need some good resources. I'm looking forward to it.

Fat Tomato

Today felt like getting hit in the face with tomatoes: juicy, giant tomatoes that snickered as they splat against my forehead. Atrain awoke at 5:45 with a grumpy hangover. That didn't bode well for the day's activities: mapping the cochlear implants at the audiologist--a series of sound tests that also test Atrain's patience. So when we arrived at the audiologist I should have been more prepared for a difficult appointment. But I wasn't; especially because Atrain's vertigo spells had an effect on his cochlear maps. I guess that it's kind of like getting so sick that you experiencing drastic changes in vision and need a new glasses prescription overnight. Not a common phenomenon.

I definitely hadn't braced myself for impact of that fat tomato. My son's hearing has been somewhat 'blurry' since our trip to the ER on mother's day--maybe even before then. I hate things I can't control and don't understand. I especially hate that no one really knows what he is experiencing, that there are no solid warning signs or certain triggers, and essentially no answers. It's all educated guesswork, and it's hard to trust a trial and error process when my son's health is at stake.

Atrain is fine. He did much better at the appointment than I did, in fact. He took the tedious appointment in stride, patiently playing the electrode beep computer game and telling the audiologist what he could and could not hear. All the while, I sat there annoyed by my ignorance and all that I can’t control. I even started to imagine every rude, irresponsible thing I wanted to do when we left the office: cut people off in traffic without using my signal, change a poopy diaper on a restaurant table, allow my kids to yell, run and wreak havoc in a public library, etc. Then I pictured myself snapping back at all of the people shooting dirty looks in my direction. “Deal with it!” I yelled at each and every one of them. If only I were so brave. I’m sure it would feel good right now. Release some tension. Maybe even make me laugh. I need that.

It Could Have Been Worse.

Today was sort of a bad day. It’s hard for my time in Texas to go sour when my daily “to do” list consists of taking the husband to work, swimming with the boys, exploring with the boys, kicking around vacation laundry, squeezing in a run at the apartment complex’s gym, cooking a quick dinner, playing with the boys and the husband, and then occasionally doing the dishes—but only if I feel like it.

However today—the day that our ‘days remaining’ became less than the ‘days enjoyed’ in Texas—trouble was out to get me. Plenty of people thought they would go for a mid-day run right when Atrain and I wanted to use the treadmills. And, because I doubt other gym-goers would appreciate watching the Disney channel and sharing equipment space with a three year old and a rug rat, we opted to swim instead.

So, there we were: Atrain anxiously dancing around while I tried to strap on his water-proofed cochlear while caging jiggly, wiggly baby J between my legs. It was a hard task, and when it was through I was happy to let Atrain hop into the pool with his inner tube while I sat nearby, smearing sun screen all over Jdog. Atrain has become quite the little flotation-assisted swimmer in the past week, considering that I can count the number of times the boy has been to the pool before this trip on one hand. We had a hard time taking him to swim, knowing that it meant sans-sound for him. He loves to hear. Whenever he’s without the CIs he’s (of course) still the same kid, but he sinks into himself—unable to adequately communicate with the world around him. This is where the cochlear critics begin to salivate as they imagine how beautiful it would be to barbecue the parents of this poor implanted child. But if only they knew Atrain. If only they could see how much he loves laughing and conversing with his cousins, how much he looks forward to having his own violin recital, how incredible it is to hear him “read” his Star Wars book, “A long time ago in a galaxy far far away…” And if only they could see how happily he swims with his 'waterproofed' cochlear. Yesterday he spent at least three hours in the pool, playing all sorts of games with his new Texas best friend PJ—a friend he would have had a much harder time bonding with if they didn’t communicate in the same language.

Now back to my sort of bad day. As I lathered up baby J, I kept a close watch on the new little ‘swimmer’ (who still needs to learn how to swim). I tossed Atrain his squirt gun, and as he reached forward to grab it he somehow slipped out of his tube. Instantaneous panic. I immediately jumped into the pool, latched onto Atrain’s arm and pulled his kicking body up out of the water. It was only a matter of seconds and he was fine, thankfully, but we were all quite shaken by the moment. (Including baby J, who was certainly shocked to enter the water with me at such a speedy rate). I sat Atrain down on the pool steps as he coughed and blinked with wide, frightened eyes. I did my best to be brave as I talked us both through what had just happened. After a few minutes he said, “I held my breath and went under like Dada, but I don’t want to do it again.” I don’t ever want him to do that again either, and am not planning any more pool trips without dada. But, in order to avoid experience scars, we cautiously proceeded back into the pool. Within a matter of minutes he and his inner tube were kicking their way with me around the pool.

My phone, on the other hand, is not the greatest swimmer. It was in my gym shorts when I darted into the pool. And, on our way to the Sprint store to look into a replacement, one of the struts on our car popped. The right passenger side composed a catastrophic clanking and cranking symphony all the way to pick up the husband. Better put that on the ‘to do’ list tomorrow. Oh well. I sure enjoyed being with the husband and the kiddos tonight. And really, who cares about a dead phone and a broken strut when all I can think about is how today could have been worse. Much worse.

Nighttime Daydreams

It's 4:49 am. I'm going to bed after a few hours spent researching waterproofing methods for cochlear implants. We plan on spending a lot of our Texas time at the pool in our sublet apartment complex while we wait for the husband to finish work every day. And, I really want Atrain to hear me when he's all wet. I've decided to try out the LOKSAK option--they advertise that their sacks can protect electronic devices underwater in depths of 200 ft. Not that we're enrolling Atrain in Navy Seal school any time soon. I wonder what it would be like to hear through a plastic bag.

I just called the husband. I hate going back to an empty bed. One of my favorite parts about waking up to work on random projects in the middle of the night is hearing the husband sleepily say, "hello beautiful," when I return to bed. Now, unless Jdog starts sniffing around for a midnight snack, I have absolutely no motivation to go back to sleep. Maybe I'll stay up and keep making Texas packing lists, or keep researching tips for flying with cochlear implants, or just keep writing about my mid night day dreams about the husband. Or maybe i'll just try calling him again. I sure do miss him. Only two more days until I get to see him. Can't wait to return to his side.

On Duty

I have a little job that I love a lot. Scratch that. Atrain, Jdog and I have a little job that we love a lot. I say “little” only because it’s part time and pretty flexible, but we take it very seriously—especially when we’re “on duty.” Being on duty means that we hold a radio after the housing office closes so that we can help people around our apartment buildings. Whenever that little radio shouts out my number Atrain says, “Can I come help people, too?” And on many occasions, he can.

Atrain is great at helping me help people get back into their apartments when they lock themselves out. But until this weekend I never really noticed how much he actually understands our “lock out” procedures. Most of the time he just quietly observes my interactions with locked out residents. Occasionally the residents will talk to him and tell me how cute he is, but he’s somewhat stranger shy, and stays silent most of the time—sometimes even darting his eyes in the opposite direction, pretending there is no one talking to him at all.

But today something surprising happened: he spoke up. When we got called to help someone who had been locked out he began instructing me. “Get the key from the key room, mom, and don’t forget to come back and get our keys when we’re done…Ok, now does he need to be let in this door and the door inside?...Make sure you check his name on your papers (roster), mom.” He said. The resident got a kick out of it, and so did I. “Ok, Atrain, and now what?” I responded, egging him on. “How do I do that?” I questioned his responses, testing his language skills. And all that he had quietly soaked in during our many trips to “help people” kept surprising me, every time he opened his mouth.

Deaf children have a difficult time learning things vicariously—even if you have cochlear implants. It’s something that hearing kids do without even realizing it: soaking in second hand language lessons from their parents and peers. I do a lot of one on one explanation, questioning and coaching with Atrain, but this kid ceases to amaze me. I’m amazed that every day with my deaf child I can still wonder things that other parents wonder. Things like, “Where did you hear that?” and “Did I teach you that?”

It feels amazing to ask myself these questions, and to realize that Atrain’s listening skills are becoming more and more independent. I thank God every time I pause to wonder where he heard that. And, I’m grateful every time Atrain reminds me how to do my duty; because even when I’m not holding the radio and helping people for my little job, I’m always on duty with my little kiddos.

Happy Anniversary, Cochlears

Two years ago today the husband and I took the biggest risk of our lives. March 31 was the day we had looked forward to and dreaded since the birth of our first son. It was the day little Atrain would trade in his hearing aids for cochlear implants. Actually, to be more accurate, it was the day his parents exchanged his high-powered, yet impotent acoustic hearing devices for two surgically implanted bionic ears. It was the only way he would have a chance at breaking the sound barrier that threatened to keep him from communicating, from connecting.

So, we loaded our one year old baby into the car and headed to Primary Children’s Hospital. We signed papers that said we would not sue the surgeons if anything went wrong while he was in the OR. Handing him over to the anesthesiologist and listening to him yell my name down the hospital halls was the worst moment of my life. The next five hours felt heavy, like my blood had turned to liquid led. But, I also felt strength—as if I was not the one lifting my head, moving my feet, inflating my lungs. And I wasn’t; God was with us that day.

I have never been more scared, and then relieved than when Atrain’s surgeon walked into the waiting room to report. All had gone well. As I held him in the recovery room and through all of the stages in the months that followed, it was hard not to loathe myself. Cochlear implants don’t instantaneously allow one to hear—it takes a lot of work. They are not a “cure” for deafness, and many would argue that we were selfish and ignorant for trying. But I ask what about parenting isn’t selfish? I don’t mean to say that answering the call for good parents to raise good kids who will be honorable members of their communities is not also selfless. But whether your kids are deaf or not, we all make choices about what they will hear and say, what they will and won’t be exposed to, how they interpret their surroundings, etc.

When the day comes that my children can choose for themselves, I don’t want their choices to be limited. Sure, I can’t control everything, in fact sometimes I wonder if there is anything at all that I can control. But, I hope to give them every opportunity to experience a fulfilled, happy life. If Atrain ever decides that taking off his implants and using ASL is the way he will be most happy and fulfilled in life, I will sign right along with him and be happy that I gave him the choice.

Until then, I will be selfishly satisfied every time my child asks me to turn up the music, every time he’s able to join in a game of “duck duck goose,” on the playground, every time he laughs at Mater’s silly sayings, and every time he clearly tells me “I love you more than all of the cars and the roads in the whole world.” I love you too, Atrain. Happy Anniversary.

A Weekend in the ER

Dear Elder I,

Hello sweet brother. Thank you for your letter. I would love to write you back a more personal, hand written letter some time. I hope I can make the time to do that this week. I sure do love and appreciate you.

This weekend was a doozy. I’m still recovering emotionally. Atrain was in the ER at Primary Childrens hospital. There’s nothing like a weekend in Primary Childrens to help you realize how fragile life is, how helpless we all really are, and how dependent I need to be upon God.

On Friday our little family went to Spork to spend the night. A friend of the husband’s had passed away and we were planning on attending his funeral; so sad, such a great man. He died from using dirty Heroin. But, we were trying to make the most of the time in Spork with Atrain, so we took him to a little play with Grandpatty and his cousins. “No Dogs Allowed,” was the name of it—it was funny, but not for the reasons the writer intended I’m sure. At least it kept the kids entertained.

Atrain had a good time with the cousins, and we went home and settled in bed like usual. He was so excited to be sleeping at Grandpatty’s with his favorite little people. I love watching him run around with them, reading books with them, trying to exercise his negotiation skills with them, etc. He’s such a huge light in my life. After a few hours of sleep he woke up yelling for me, so I laid down by him. Then I heard him gag, and up came everything he ate for dinner. About fifteen minutes passed and it happened again, then again, and again and again. I sat by him watching him wallow in his misery, feeling so sorry for my little guy. He hates throwing up and I hate watching him. He’ll let the initial upchuck come, then fight the rest, swallowing it back down. When Baby J woke up and needed attention the husband came by Atrain’s side.

By 7am he had thrown up about 15 times. When he saw that it was morning he tried to get up, but couldn’t stand. His eyes were spinning from side to side. He said he was dizzy. He said he was going to fall over. Every time he moved from one position he cried and his eyes kept spinning. We made a call to Dr. Grandpappa and he said to take him into the ER at PCH. Spinning eyes are not a typical flu-like symptom…they usually always mean something worse, especially when your kid has cochlear implants.

Within 15 minutes and after a quick Priesthood blessing, we were on our way to the hospital. The husband and I weren’t saying much. Worrying about our little Atrain kept our minds too busy to think about talking. Occasionally I would ask the husband what he was thinking, hoping that his thoughts were more optimistic than mine—his Cochlears? A tumor? Extra fluid in the brain? Balance issues? Flashbacks to the weeks after his CI surgery…he can’t get an MRI, what if the ER docs need to do an MRI? What if they have to remove his internal devices just to figure out what’s going on? I kept praying and hoping that he was just dehydrated, which made him dizzy. But I knew that probably wasn’t the case.

When we pulled into the ER instead of home Atrain started crying, “I don’t want the doctors. I want to go home and watch Peter Pan. Home! I want to go home,” he said. “I know Atrain, so do I,” I said, “but the doctors will help you feel better.” We signed all of the paper work and waited for them to call us back. The husband was looking up everything he could about nystagmus—spinning eyes. Jdog slept in his car seat. Atrain kept his eyes closed as he laid on my chest and clung his little arms around my neck. As I wrapped my arms around his long, skinny body I tried to divert my mind from its destructive thoughts. But it kept pushing my imagination right over the deep end. I wouldn’t know what to do without this little man in my life.

They finally took us back and Atrain was brave as they examined him. The ER doc didn’t have many answers. The Neurologist didn’t have many answers, but helped us rule out some of the scarier tumor scenarios. The ENT doc had a few guesses that weren’t all that comforting. We called all the specialists and friends we knew to get more input. Nothing. The docs decided to do an IV to get some fluid into him. He protested when I told him, but when the nurses came in to place it he didn’t even make a peep. They wrapped his IV arm in a little splint to keep it in place. Once they were gone he examined his hand and concluded that it was broken. Then he said, “I was so brave.” That tipped me over the edge. As I bounced baby J down the halls my breath shuttered as I cried and plead with God to help him be OK. I was trying not to let my fears overwhelm me. I was trying to hold onto my hope and my faith, but I needed help. I thought of the father of the child in Mark 9 who said to Christ, “Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief.”

After a few hours the ER doc came in our room with a possible explanation. He had pulled a research study done by a few docs at PCH. The study discussed the episodic occurrence of vertigo among individuals with Large Vestibular Aqueducts. LVA is the congenital defect that causes Atrain’s deafness, the reason why he has CIs. Apparently 48% of kids with LVA experience random episodes of vertigo—the “room is spinning” sensation that can happen to people in old age. I guess the Vestibular system controls your balance and when it’s a little large, sometimes your world can start spinning.

We didn’t expect this. No one had ever warned us about the possibility of random vertigo episodes associated with LVA. I guess that LVA is such a unique condition, and episodic vertigo only happens to a portion of the tiny LVA population—so it’s not well known or well researched. We don’t know what can trigger it. We don’t know how often it may occur. We’re not even 100% sure that this is what happened, but it was the most likely explanation.

Atrain kept the IV fluids down and they moved us to the overnight watch unit. When we got there he asked for dinosaurs. The dinosaurs came. He asked for Peter Pan. Peter Pan followed. He asked for chocolate milk. They started him on popsicles, which made him and us happier than we had been all day. He loved them. I loved the root beer slushy and jello that he didn’t eat. He began opening his eyes more, and could now lie on his back. He kept his head glued to the pillow, but it was progress. Soon enough he started to lift off of the pillow to tell us, “It’s my sick day today,” and “My broken arm is taking a big drink,” and “I’m not so dizzy any more.” Every time he spoke the husband and I smiled brightly, then exchanged relieved glances.

Night soon came and Atrain was keeping down the pizza, crackers, water and popsicles he dined on to his delight. Jdog needed a better place to sleep. The husband and I agreed that it was better that I take poor J home, away from the RSV floating around in the hospital. Hopefully he hadn’t already caught it. I was torn, especially when Atrain cried as I left, but I knew that the husband was the best company he could have. When I got back to our apartment I opened the door and saw all of Atrain’s toys, the unfinished plate of his food on the table, and his shoes lying next to the cubbies. I lost all composure. After putting baby J to bed I got into the shower and sobbed. The thought and fear of not having little Atrain in my home shook me.

I know that everything I have is from God. I know that it all can disappear in a moment—not because God is cruel, but because that’s just life. Even though God can, I don’t think He takes what He has given away from us. Loss and suffering and sickness and sin are just part of the world we live in. But that doesn’t mean that I should stop trying to rise above it all, to hope for something better. That’s why I believe in God—“whoso believeth in God might with surety hope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God, which hope cometh of faith, maketh an anchor to the souls of men…” (our scripture, Ether 12:4). As I stood there sobbing and praying that my son would be alright, I simultaneously knew that sometimes some things aren’t alright and it’s not God’s fault. But in the chaos and calamity I also know that He has the power to save and to heal.

I couldn’t wait to get back to my boys at the hospital. When I went in the room they were snuggled by each other on the bed, sleeping. Atrain quickly awoke and asked for a snack. Good thing I had brought him some “sugar toast” from home. He sat up and snarfed it and I knew he was going to be fine. Soon enough he tried out his legs and exclaimed, “I can walk, look, I can walk,” although his balance was still visibly impaired, he was walking. We went home a few hours later. He is a miracle.

We still don’t know what to expect from here. It was a huge wake-up call that the condition that caused his deafness also has other miserable surprises lurking in Atrain’s future. But, we will keep going with a better perspective on what He faces, and also a better understanding of how much we really don’t understand. Such is life, right? I’m thankful he is well, hoping his improvement will continue and recommitted to praying more sincerely, with the certainty that life is uncertain and all I can really do is fasten my hope to God.

I better be on my way, brother. The kids will be waking soon and it is another day with many more unknowns waiting for me. I sure do love you. I’m so thankful for your service, your perspective and example. Keep up the good work.

Love, MJ

Ps-looks like the husband will be in Texas for two months this summer. He’ll be at MD Anderson Cancer Center doing research with the awesome docs there. It will be hard, but also an amazing opportunity to help him match at a good residency program in Radiation Oncology. Many things happening these days….hopefully I can write you more about the other humdrums of life soon. Love you.

Teen Mom

Today I promoted teen abstinence—not that Allerina needed a reminder to stay away from boys. She's never kissed anyone and I’m proud of her for her refrain. Not that I would know, but kissing boys in middle school is definitely not worth it. Big sister Bambie would know. She would agree with me.

Allerina accompanied me to Atrain’s quarterly audiology appointment. Why would I take my little sister out of school and drive her three hours away from her home for my son’s doctor’s appointment? It really doesn’t have anything to do with abstinence. It has much more to do with the fact that I’m not abstinent and now have two kids. One of them has to spend three hours listening to beeping noises every four months (and needs my full attention to help him). He hates that. The other son has to eat every two to three hours, and he won’t eat without me. He hates that. I can’t do it without help. I hate that.

My mom couldn’t help; she’s getting ready to go to Canada tomorrow. My sister who lives near the audiologist couldn’t help; she had class. I’m too proud to ask my mother in law; no matter the inconvenience she would drop everything and come. So, when Allerina offered excitedly to be my on-site babysitter at the audiologist, I couldn’t pass it up. Even though she didn’t know what she was in for.

I picked her up yesterday after she cleared the absence with her teachers and picked up her homework. She was happy to miss math class, and I was happy to tutor her. Atrain was happy to see her. Jodg howled the whole way home. Allerina made dinner while I fed Jdog, then she bounced Jdog while I spent the rest of the evening at a work meeting. Then when I returned we did her homework before heading to bed at one am.

The next morning we began prepping for our long adventure to the audiologist. I told Atrain the bad news when he awoke: that we were headed to the cochlear doctor today. He cried, but perked up when I reminded him about the listening games we’ve been practicing and the chocolate egg rewards. I skipped my run and revolved everything around getting the boys ready and keeping them happy. We played games, I gave in to more of his chocolate requests than usual, I didn’t make him take a bath, Allerina took him to the playground, I worked hard keeping Jdog awake until we loaded into the car. It was a success. We drove the 90 minutes to the audiologist with both boys happily snoozing in the back.

When we got to the appointment Allerina took over Jdog duties while I convinced a frantic Atrain to let our audiologist hook his cochlears up to the computer. Poor kid. I don’t really even know what I’m talking about when I tell him that it’s not going to be bad. I don’t know what he hears when we hook him up to the computer. I know that sometimes we have to turn the sound off, which makes him understandably upset. But the kid is tough. I know he can do it—even if I can’t completely understand what he has to go through.

The audiologist and I quickly got to work, and to my surprise, Atrain quickly became cooperative and even happy. He was doing it. He was listening for the beeps and consistently pressing the button when he heard them. It was the first time in his life he was giving us feedback about how his cochlears hear. The chocolate egg incentive helped and our practice was paying off. He was even having fun. Whenever he heard the beep (it’s something that only he hears…and we have to discern whether or not he really heard it or he’s just pretending to hear it so he can push the button) he got to switch the pictures of cars characters on the computer screen. He was laughing at their expressions, talking about what they were doing, and asking me the names of the ones he didn’t know. Even though he couldn’t hear me respond he would read my lips and repeat what he thought I was saying. I try to teach him to read lips while he takes baths, but he’s never tried to repeat the words I mouth to him. He’s actually quite good at it.

All the while we’re in the sound booth making the most of Atrain’s productive appointment, I’m wondering how Allerina is holding up with Jdog in the foyer. I can feel that he’s getting hungry. After an hour and a half the audiologist, Aaron and I take a break so that both boys can eat. Then we get back to work. To all of our astonishment, Atrain keeps at the task for another ninety minutes. Amazing. We’re gathering so much data about my kid’s listening skills that we have to schedule another appointment for next week so that we can finish testing. He’s really growing up.

We finished the appointment an hour over schedule and Allerina and Jdog were relieved to see us enter the waiting room. Baby J looked angry. Allerina looked exhausted: my superhero sister, saving the day, swallowing the kryptonite so that Atrain’s appointment could be a success. She was amazing. She missed school, missed her friends, missed her young women’s activity so that she could save me. And now she was clearly ready to go home. So was I. The kids, on the other hand, had other plans. I had to pull Atrain away from the toys in the waiting room. That was a first. Jdog arched his back when I put him in his car seat and started to cry. It was a long ride. My poor baby cried on and off most of the way home. For a few moments I flashed back to the days when I was Allerina’s age, babysitting while my parents were out for the night, bouncing my colicky newborn sister to sleep for hours next to the dryer in the laundry room. She always liked the sound of the dryer.

Allerina went to sleep for most of the ride home, despite my howling baby. It was probably better that way. Toward the end of the ride she woke up and in a dazed state her true feelings about her day surfaced when she asked, “What’s his problem?” Jdog just kept crying. I kept apologizing for making her day so miserable, then thanking her for being the person who I know loves me enough to put up with the misery, then apologizing again. “I bet you would take math class over this,” I said. She said no, but avoided eye contact. “Do you ever want kids after today?” She snorted and replied, “not at least for another ten years. Good. Glad I could be of service.