Ryan’s play this morning involved him listening to my heart with a stethoscope. He clearly knows what to do with a blood pressure cuff and pulse oximeter. He fears going anywhere near a lab. Needles have been a routine part of his life since he was six months old.
Geoffrey talks about “missing his doctors.” He describes, as he randomly remembers, aspects of his time in the hospital. This week, he’s telling of the time he required oxygen and wore a face mask. “I didn’t like that,” he says.
For Ella, she is trying to fit all of the time we spent in the States into categories that make sense to her little mind and heart. We talk about sickle cell disease and how Ryan and Geoffrey used to have it. She continues, “well, Sharon gave her blood to help them get better.”
Yes, she did.
As we transition back into our home and work in Kenya, I walk through the village and ponder it all. Did this really happen? Did we survive the darkness? The uncertainty?
We went for a family outing to swim, and I am overwhelmed as I watch them swim. They can get in the water and won’t have a pain crisis.
Ryan gets a cough, and the pediatrician recommends: “we’re treating him like a normal, healthy child.”
Ryan and Geoffrey no longer remember how much it used to hurt. What felt like, every single day.
My heart and mind is in wonder of it all. This journey really happened – not only the trauma and pain but also the healing.