The second day of Cailyn’s life would come to shape the next few months of mine. The nurse had come in to take some of Amber’s vitals and I was finishing up changing one of my first diapers. I finished, pulled Cailyn up to my chest and laid her head on my shoulder. Suddenly, her whole body went rigid, she threw her head back, and opened her mouth wide. I expected a cry but heard nothing.
“She’s choking!” I yelled to the nurse. “Help!”
The nurse casually walked over and explained how sometimes new babies get mucus caught in their throat. She started to demonstrate the process of clearing out a babies throat, when she raised her eyes with a very uneasy look.
“Hit the red emergency button.”
I was too shaken to find the right button, I was pressing everything in sight. I was in my socks and slipping all over the floor, running back and forth trying to process what was happening. I slid out of the room, into the lobby and just yelled as loud as I could.
“Someone please help! My daughter isn’t breathing!”
I came back in with a few nurses closely behind. They worked on Cailyn and I watched Amber, who sat there in stunned silence. She was obviously scared out of her mind, but bed-ridden and powerless to help. Finally, they cleared Cailyn’s throat, but her lips had begun to turn blue. They gave her oxygen and assured us that she was okay. Amber and I were emotionally drained, relieved, but simultaneously very fearful. My next question was simple.
“Could this happen again?”
Life as a well-employed bachelor was easy. I remember playing video games for a few hours on end after work, driving the “long way” with my windows down on cool summer nights, pulling through Taco Bell for dinner, and getting back to the apartment just in time to watch a baseball game or movie. In those days, I’d get a call from some friends wanting to hang out and I’d be up for it…immediately. I drove fast, I played hard, I ate poorly, I thought I controlled everything, and I feared nothing.
Anyone with kids can write the next paragraph. Children change everything. Cailyn’s bassinet didn’t leave our bedside for the first few months. Every time she made a noise, we jumped up to check on her. When she finally went to her own room, we put the baby monitor as close to her face as possible and jacked up the volume. We were almost caricatures of ourselves; A new breed of hyper-paranoid, obsessive compulsive, anxiety overridden parents on steroids. For months, we worried about everything from her appetite to her sleeping position and the consistency of her poop.
The anxiety doesn’t stop after infancy. We live in a sick world. One where you have to keep your child next to you in all public places. You begin to drill scenarios into their head by teaching them not to talk to strangers and to always look both ways before crossing the street. That evolves into discussions about friends and bullies, cars, dances, dating, college, money, etc. This continues, even when your children are grown and restart this cycle with a child of their own.
My fears underwent reconstruction with Cailyn’s diagnosis. She didn’t understand the concept of a stranger and, at the time, couldn’t cry for help even if she did. In the news, we were beginning to see stories of teachers joining with bullies in abuse of children with Autism. We began living with the reality that Cailyn may live her entire life with a different aptitude for the world around her. I resigned myself to this possibility and decided to dedicate myself to taking care of her and making her life as happy as possible. That’s when the real fear rose up in my mind. Someday, I would die. Cailyn would be without me. She may not have anyone to protect her, provide for her, love her, or understand just how awesome and beautiful she is. This became my biggest fear and the subject of many of my prayers.
Just a few weeks ago, my dad informed me of a special “healing” service his church was having. He said that everyone was fasting (giving up) something they loved and using that time to pray for an individual, in whom they wanted to see a miracle. I’m naturally a skeptic about all things “miracle.” It’s just my logical, scientific, cautious nature. In many ways, I believe this to be a defense mechanism to prevent myself from being let down. To supplement this ever present doubt, I decided I needed to completely dedicate myself to this endeavor. That made my fasting choices easy: I decided on soda, salt, and bacon. Anyone who knows me, understands the level of sacrifice involved.
During the first week of the fast, I discovered that I had “Stage 1” high blood pressure. With my family history and sedentary, yet often stressful job, blood pressure issues at thirty years old is a potentially huge early warning sign. Coincidentally, I’d already pledged to give up the things in my diet that most contributed to my health issues. It was interesting that I never had the discipline to eat right on my own but, since this was something I had promised to do for Cailyn, I held firm. It was a step I couldn’t have taken of my own volition, but required a greater purpose. Slowly, my blood pressure fell and is approaching “high-normal” levels. It seemed as though the healing had already begun…and it wasn’t all physical.
We instinctively fret the unknown, different, and uncontrollable. However ridiculous or improbable the anxiety might be, it doesn’t become less real. The anatomy of fear is such that it is completely confined to our mind and should be at our mercy, yet it imprisons us. There are times that we need reassurance that we don’t fight these battles by the strength of our own hands. Whether it be with the fear of my own mortality or of Cailyn never being “healed,” I’ve learned it best to plan for the future, live in the now, and leave my anxiety in bigger hands. This week I was blessed enough to receive a subtle reminder that the ravens are still being fed and life is so much more uncertain when left to my comprehension and control.