i don't remember inviting you here...

So, apparently the Angel of Death followed us home. I thought we left him in the PCICU where he was constantly lurking around every corner. He was under my bed at the Ronald McDonald house and while I was in the hospital. He haunted my dreams and my waking moments. His middle name is "Fear," and I kept him at bay with scripture and prayer.

The very first night we were home, I confidently nervously prepared Sam's heparin injection. But wait a minute. Something was wrong with it. I'd given it several times in the step down unit and this didn't look right. The amount was wrong. It said on the bottle, ".1 MG." That can't be right. We were giving what looked like a full 1ML at the hospital. Got it! .1MG must be the same as 1ML. Boy. Good thing I figured THAT out! I almost gave him the wrong amount of heparin! So I proceeded with the injection. In my defense, it was late. I was severly sleep deprived. It was the first time I'd ever given the injection without a nurse looking over my shoulder. And... I'm a complete idiot. So there's that. After I gave the injection, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a sinking feeling of terrror mixed with doubt. I knew that I'd messed up. Since heparin is a blood thinner, I knew that if I had indeed done what I was afraid I'd done, this could be very bad. I called the number that they'd given me when we were discharged- the "just in case of emergency" number. Yeah, I should have called that number to ask that all important clarifying question BEFORE I gave the injection. But you know what? I didn't call it because I was afraid. I was afraid that if I called to ask for clarification about something so obvious as medication dosage, they would think that I wasn't capable of taking care of Sam. In my fogged up brain, I felt the need to prove that I could do this. Because I'm a mother. I should be capable of taking care of my own baby, for goodness sake. This feeling goes by the name of "Pride," and it's a very dangerous bedfellow. The doctor that answered my call verified that I had indeed given my son 10 times the dosage of heparin that his body required. This is what they said to me, "If he starts bleeding from his eyes, nose, or starts having bloody diapers, take him to the emergency room immediately."

I hung up the phone. Where do you go from there? I stood there looking at my baby thinking that at any minute, he could start bleeding from all his orifices. I started thinking about how the military hospital closest to our home was the same hospital that sent Sam to Duke because they couldn't properly care for him. I can't adequately describe the feelings of insufficiency that flooded me. I am not smart enough to do this. I can't do this. This is too much for me. Sam's needs are too great and he's too fragile to be at home in my care. In MY care. Me, the idiot that just gave him 10 times his dose of heparin. Good mothers don't do things like this.

Our first night home wasn't one of peaceful slumber for me. Of course, I had to be up all night to pump and feed Sam anyway, but the fear of Sam's blood leaving his body through his eyes definitely interfered with my getting any restful sleep between my nighttime obligations. I couldn't escape the knowledge: if he dies tonight, it's my fault. The baby that survived open heart surgery and two blood clots and being born six weeks early... I might have just set into motion his termination. Because of my stupidity and arrogance. Joy (almost always) comes in the morning. Sam did live through the night. He did not bleed from his eyes or his nose. His diapers were blessedly wet, but not with blood.

I hope I learned from that experience- that mothers who love deeply still make horrible mistakes- and also that there is grace even when I am stupid. So much grace and mercy. I prayed all night that God would grant my baby another chance. I asked forgiveness for harboring the pride that had held me back from making the call to ask the questions about dosage. At the same time, my doubts in myself began to grow rapidly. Humility is crucial. But I began to feel like my own value as a mother, and as a child of God, was in question. I still deal with this today, at this minute, right at this exact second. How did I end up with these two precious children?

"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in my weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."
                                         2 Corinthians 12:9-10 (NIV, emphasis mine)

Boasting in my weakness, huh? Right. But my weaknesses are embarrassing and really, really.... WEAK. Like weaker than most. My weaknesses lead me to doubt my ability to raise my children and cause me to fear that one day someone will see through my human frailty and say, "OH my goodness- yes, this was a mistake! Those kids weren't really meant for YOU!" I am weak. He is strong. He likes it that way. If I was capable and powerful and awesome and perfect, I wouldn't need His help, would I? The weaker I am, the more I am aware of my need to have Him living in me. Empty me of myself, because I am weak. Fill that empty space with You- then I will be strong, not by my own power, but with the power that doesn't get tired from lack of sleep, or grumpy when I haven't had my coffee. I am going to share my weakness. I am going to put it out there and be vulnerable and that feels dangerous to me. But we are all weak. Our weaknesses may be different, but we are all frail. So, stay tuned for more on weakness. And I'll try not to cringe as I type.