My Miracle
I talk about my miracle children all the time. They are miracles because we were able to conceive them with IVF, because they both survived in utero even with crazy heart conditions, and because they are both thriving and don't look like heart patients. Every minute of every day is a miracle with them. But, when I call Jellybean my miracle child, I am referring not just to those things, but to an amazing moment of grace--when I asked for a very specific miracle and got it.
Last November, when we were at CHM waiting for Jellybean's surgery to start, we were talking with our support people--Phil's mother and one of our very dear friends. As we typed blog posts and Facebook updates, we talked about the frustrating OB I had had who kept insisting there was nothing wrong with Jellybean's heart and kept inferring that once he was born, we would see there was nothing wrong. Obviously, that was not the case. We also talked about the well-meaning people who had said similar things, not from the perspective of medicine, but that God might give us a miracle and heal Jellybean's heart. And as we sat at the table waiting--I will never forget--I said to them: My miracle would be if there is enough of his own tissue to reach between the left and right branch pulmonary arteries without having to use anything artifical or homograft. If I could have a miracle, that would be it.
Fast-forward to our meeting with the surgeon hours later, once the procedure was over. He said that when he went in to detach the LBPA from the truncus, he discovered that there was an extra pouch of tissue on the side of the truncus and that he was able to take a long flap of that to make a "tounge" that reached all the way across to the RBPA, which he then covered with Patrick's own pericardial tissue (the sack around the heart). The benefit of this was twofold. First, because it was all his own tissue, there was no chance of rejection. Second, because it wasn't artificial, but live, growing tissue, there was a good chance that it would grow with him and, thus, wouldn't need to be perpetually replaced the way the artifical parts that will be used for his complete repair (whether truncus or HLHS) will need to be replaced.
There it was. My miracle. Not exactly as I had imagined--I was picturing a really long LBPA that would reach across--but it was still what I had asked for. I was amazed. Blown away. For a brief moment, I had the thought, "Maybe my prayer was too small. Should I have asked for more?" "No," I answered myself. Sometimes we get miracles because we what we ask for is the right size. After all, there is no way the medical community, or the world at large, is ready for healing of that magnitude. It would result in forever making Jellybean the subject of research. No, what I asked for and received was a small way for Jellybean's life, and mine to some extent, to be easier. A mini-miracle, if you will.
From the moment the doctor told us about the wonderful surprise he encountered that allowed him to do the PA fix without any artifical material, I knew Jellybean was being watched over and protected. I sometimes imagine God sitting at a bench, like a judge, looking down on us, saying, "Asked and answered, counselor." It makes me smile. Phil and I have spoken about the fact that maybe all of the people who passed away just before and just after Jellybean's birth and surgery went when they did to help him from the other side. I can believe that; that my grandmothers helped make my miracle happen; that Phil's mentor helped smooth Jellybean's recovery and is helping with his growth and development. I can feel the truth of it deep down. Loss and joy intertwined, creating my miracle. Thanks be to God.