Back From Black

It has taken me over a month to get this post written due to computer complications (who knew a little light bulb could cause such a ruckus) and it isn't even what I really wanted to convey to you. But honestly, those feelings are hard for me to put into words. By the time you get to the end of it, I hope you understand and forgive me.

If the whole wedding reception tradition hadn't been so formal when I got married, I would have had two Bridesmen along with my Bridesmaids standing in the reception line. One of them would have been this guy, my friend, Digger.

Obviously, Digger is not his real name, but it is what he has gone by as long as I have known him and he still answers to it today. He is one of my best friends from high school who let me drag him to early morning Seminary Morningsides and kept Mr. Trimble's Spanish class, down right bearable. He could make me smile on the worst of days and took me to Senior Cotillion, when my R.M. boyfriend (Richard) had no interest in attending a high school dance. Although, I know Digger would have rather taken the girl that is now his wife.

But that life seems like a hundred lifetimes ago before we traded in the responsibilities and fun of high school for those of grown ups with families of our own.

Over the last three months, as I have gotten my children settled in to a new school year, Digger has watched as doctors at PCMC settled his little girl, Gracie, into a medically induced coma. As I have shuttled my kids to and from basketball, football, and other lessons, he has watched as Gracie has been shuttled to and from the operating room for various procedures to stop or slow down the seizures that have taken hold of  her little 9 year old body. Over the last month, as I woke my children to each new day Digger and his wife, Mindy, have wondered if this would be the day they saw their daughters eyes again as the doctors brought her slowly out of the coma.

Sometimes life seems really unfair.

I want to tell you Digger and Gracie's story because of a video I saw the other day. It was delivered to our inbox from a radio talk show host that we regularly receive mass emails from. It was a video where a toddler, about the age of two, is hit by a delivery van in a Chinese marketplace and how many minutes elapse before anyone helps the crying baby. It was honestly, the most horrific thing I have ever seen. The horrifying part not being seeing that child cry out in pain, but to watch 18 different people walk or drive by, obviously notice the child and not do ANYTHING! I didn't, because I couldn't, watch the whole thing.

The talk show's host intent on sharing the video was to show what living in a communistic country, under heavy rule by the government in all aspects of their lives, does to the charitable and basic humanity of its inhabitants.

 I guess he got his point across because I started to think about Digger's little Gracie, her situation and how the people of the communities in Utah (and I'm sure other places as well) have handled it. Here is a little girl and her family who have spent over 100 days in Primary Children's in the fight of their lives, just like the toddler laying in the street. This fight has taken a heavy toll on their family- both emotionally and financially. Instead of walking by and hoping that the next guy will do something many people, some that know Gracie and even more that don't, have stopped to give aid to a girl and her family in need.

People have organized and carried out a 5K and carnival with enough participants to catch the media's eye. Neighborhoods have held yard and bake sales. Friends and family have participated in special fasts. Restaurants have held dinners in Gracie's honor and donated the profits. Accounts have been set up where annoymous donations can be made. It has blown me away to see how people have stepped up and poured out all kinds of charity simply because of the goodness of their hearts.

This is the world I am thankful to live in.

A world where, thanks in part to those friends and strangers who have not only supported Gracie financially, but also with positive thoughts and prayers, she opened her eyes after 11 weeks in a coma on 11/11/11. And now a month later, she has been moved out of the ICU to a Neuro Unit and is making miraculous strides in her rehab and recovery.

Isn't it amazing what a little compassion, coupled with hope and prayer can do? It saddens my heart to think of children living in worlds where compassion is crushed by the fear of  "getting involved" and hope and prayer are nonexistent in a God-less society. Now I know the video is not indicative of all Chinese people as a whole, so here is my hope and my prayer that the baby laying in the street was afforded a miracle, just like Gracie .

25 Cents of Kindness

When I was pregnant with baby number four and found out that it was going to be girl I was excited that she would be like me- the only girl with three older brothers. What I didn't realize was that I was also cursing her with the curse of torture that having three older brothers brings. Accidental as the incidents may be, they can still be considered torture.

When I was about Emma's age our family was to go swimming for Family Home Evening. In the excitement of doing such a fun activity swimsuits were gathered and everyone piled into the car where the door was slammed shut...on my hand...by my brother. Needless to say, we went for a not so fun activity to the doctor's office for stitches instead of going swimming.

Well, last night after Family Home Evening, which included a rousing game of Dallin's creation where we had to make a certain number of baskets within a specified time frame to become Gods and have the ability to create universes had concluded, the kids excitedly ran upstairs to get their jammies on.

There was a cry; the type of cry that tells a parent that something is seriously wrong. But the cry also had anger in it, so Richard and I listened, thinking that one of the brothers had just done something to incredibly upset his sister. But nothing was said and the horrific cry continued punctuated with long silences where the pain was so bad sound just would not come.

I rushed upstairs demanding to know what happened as I scooped up a sobbing Emma. A sheepish Ben replied that she had gotten her hand shut in his door on the side where the hinges are. Emma showed me her hand. There was her left ring finger with the nail attached only at the tip; the rest had been ripped out from under her skin at the base of her nail.

After some quick bandaging and a second opinion call to Grandma Jeanne, we were off to the Provo InstaCare which unfortunately, had closed at 9:00 only 2 minutes before we arrived, so onto Orem we went.

Emma was inconsolable which rattled my sleep deprived mother nerves to the point of feeling inconsolable myself. It was getting late. I was tired and felt helpless that my soothing words and other antics were having no effect on my child. Threatening tears burned in my eyes and just when I didn't think I could take it any longer there was a voice behind me speaking to Emma. It was a woman who was at the InstaCare with her own son. She was telling Emma that she had an extra quarter and had used it to buy her a ring from a vending machine in the waiting room. The crying stopped and a little uninjured hand reached out to take the ring encased in a small plastic ball which was then held tightly throughout the rest of the following procedures.

She didn't start to cry again until they used a needle to numb her finger in order to push the nail back under the skin so that the nail bed would not adhere to the skin preventing any future growth of a nail on that finger. When the needle had been put away the crying quickly subsided as she gripped that little plastic case holding a gift from a stranger. A stranger that with 25 cents and a charitable heart made the difference for a mother and her baby girl when things seemed in chaos and out of control. A stranger that with 25 cents bought back my sanity.

The x-rays were inconclusive of whether the tip of her finger is broken, but they are treating it as such with a splint and a round of antibiotics. I have a small crescent shaped scar between my thumb and forefinger to remind me of the torture that living with 3 brothers can bring, the doctor says that Emma will probably have a rippled nail to remind her of hers. But she will have something else, a cheap plastic white ring decorated with black spirals to wear on that finger with the rippled nail that will always remind me of the kindness that 25 cents bought.


As a side note: After I had finished writing this post today and we were getting ready to pick-up her antibiotic, Emma asked if she could wear the ring that Heavenly Father and Jesus gave her last night. I was floored. But I firmly believe we are the hands that do our Father's work here on this earth and that woman, whoever she may be, was on an angel's errand last night.