Sneak Peek – When Hope Seems Lost

There I was again.  The same hospital.  The same waiting room.  Maybe even the same chair.  My two-year-old son, Harley, oblivious to my inner turmoil, sat next to me.  He wiggled down my legs onto the floor. My face winced as his chubby little hands hit the orange carpet.  While it appeared clean, I imagined the hospital floor must be crawling with germs. He had already been sitting for an hour at the cardiologist’s office.  Two-year-old boys don’t enjoy sitting – especially not quietly.  I tried to entertain him and keep my mind off where I was.  My hand rhythmically stroked his blonde hair as I watched the minutes tick by on the clock above the door.  I noticed his jeans hit just above his ankles; time to put those in the ever-growing pile for Goodwill.

The automatic doors shuffled quietly with the hustle and bustle of a busy hospital.  Each time they slid open, a wave of warm, humid air wafted inside.  Nearby, a young girl eagerly pushed a book into her mother’s hands.  I listened to a husband and wife behind me make plans for dinner that night.  She mentioned Mexican, but he wanted to try a new Chinese restaurant in the next town over.  Hunger pains gripped my stomach as I listened.

It had been a long afternoon.  It had been a long two years. I thrive on having a plan, on being in control; but the past two years had been a whirlwind of the unexpected. I clung to the fragments of life I could control, which were few and far between more often than not.  Today was supposed to be different. I knew the plan for today – my appointment with the cardiologist to discuss my upcoming heart ablation, a quick trip to the hospital for paperwork and pre-op blood work, a stop by the bank and then home to put Harley down for a nap.  Monday afternoon naps are quiet and peaceful – my reset from the weekend and busy Sundays at church. With my eyelids struggling to stay open, I planned to steal a nap with him today.

“Ashley Hallford”

I jumped at the sound of my own name.  I gathered Harley and his collection of cars and followed the nurse down the hallway, her eyes never leaving the chart in her hand.  The lines on the floor seemed to lead us like an ill-fated treasure map. As I turned the corner, I saw it.  The nurse led me straight to the room where, just over two years earlier, my journey began. The drab walls, still pale yellow, stood in desperate need of cheerful artwork or something to brighten the space.     A flood of emotions floated through my body, enveloping me as I stood in the doorway, briefly unable to move.  It was like someone sucked the air out of the room. When the nurse finally glanced up from the chart, she noticed tears running down my face.  Her eyes darted back to the chart, probably unsure of what to do.  I was there for routine, pre-op blood work.  A quick needle prick and two vials of blood and it would be over.  She couldn’t possibly have known the source of my distress.  She shifted her supplies and made small talk with Harley, in an attempt to give me a moment to relax.

“You ready, honey?”

I took a deep breath – forcing myself to regain my composure.  The needle pierced my vein; I didn’t flinch. After everything I had endured, I barely felt the prick of the needle anymore.  Harley’s wiggling had stopped. Mesmerized by the nurse’s quick, efficient movements, Harley sat motionless. It was as if time stopped for those few moments.  As I held my son I thought about all that had happened – much of it in this hospital – since that day.  The depths of sorrow and the height of joy were impossible to grasp.  My husband, David, and I had walked through a storm like none we had ever imagined and sitting there, I relived it all at high speed.

I was abruptly roused from my thoughts.

“You’re all done.  Have a good day.”

The nurse turned her back as she deposited the needle into the bin on the wall. I gathered Harley and stood up, steadying myself on the arm of the chair, with Harley’s little hand firmly in mine, his little round face and blue eyes looking intently up at my own face. I gave him a weak smile as I brushed the final tear away.

As I walked out of the room, I uttered a feeble, “Thank you,” and my feet rushed to put distance between me and that room.   Maybe the thank you was to the nurse or maybe it was more of a prayer.  So much uncertainty still swirled around me, but as I walked further down the hallway, my sorrow melted into thankfulness.  Even if I didn’t live another day – the past two years with my husband and son were simply a gift no one ever thought I would live to see.