Monday, January 25, 2010

The Management

"I don't know where it came from," she says, "but I put it on my face like make-up." Glitter, it's good for almost anything.

In other news, dilating drops smell like violets AND so do my hands. You'd think I'd be a pro after a modest 47 drops of various sorts in the last five days, haha. I also placed and removed Lulie's new contact lens four times today. Yay! It's clumsy but hey, we're doin' it! :) Since I'm on a roll as amateur med student I also super-glued my left index finger after a bad encounter with the bread knife. Worked GREAT.


Another good day.

Sunday, January 24, 2010


Dilated pupils do have benefits.

Momma and Dad buy you SUNGLASSES!

Think she likes them? They'll be dilated for six weeks.

Now, tomorrow we get a contact lens and this precious eye will be fully operational. Hard to believe it's totally blind right now!

Patching will be a breeze after this!


Jack grabs Lulie's hands, "Are you singing for joy for me, Lulie?" She giggles. He off. She sings a jumble of ABC's and runs after him.

The world is still simple.

Friday, January 22, 2010

The OR

"Jesus love me, this I know," I sing the words.

A nurse with white skin and pink cheeks administers sleeping gas. It's a mask, but Lucy doesn't mind. Her eyes flutter. She waves an arm. I hold her small pudgy hand and lean close. "Yes, Jesus loves me - - yes," the chorus encircles us. She's asleep and still I sing out the last words.

So many blue gowns and each one waits. And still I sing. All the perfection of a surgeon's team, the intersection of man and science, microscopes and scalpels that make 1mm incisions, precision, and still, they wait for my song's end. An unexpected reverence.

"Can I kiss her cheek?"

"Yes, you may."

Another nurse whisks me away. I feel as though we walk on water.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010


Before surgery.

Waiting to leave.

Relatively un-phased by the whole thing.


Waking up. Slow. Post-op.

Ready for food again.

{Sigh} Thank-you, LORD!

First thing, our surgeon said the cataract was much bigger than expected once he opened the eye. It's amazing she could see so well. The Lord is good. Thank-you for your love and prayers. Now contacts and patching and grace. Day by day. Thanks.

Monday, January 18, 2010


So, it's a go.

Tomorrow. Wednesday.

Check-in 7:15 am. Surgery 9:00.

Would ya'll mind praying?

Lord, if you are willing, I know you can heal me.

A grand request.

A grand God.

Here we go.

Sunday, January 17, 2010

These Days...

"Look, I'm dressed," Jane announces.

Jack looks up from a huge floor puzzle, "Hmm. You're pretty, Jane."

She smiles. Half across the room, I feel pretty too.

It's dinner. "Toots are not appropriate dinner conversation, Jack," I say. "Jack?"

Janie raises her eyebrows, "You just whisper, 'Excuse me.'" She smears mayo onto her bread, glances at him.

Jack's all mirth. Sitting up on one knee he leans on an elbow, "Well," he pauses, "I said, 'Excuse me,' in my heart."

"Jane, Janie," Jack calls, "wanna play Jesus-dying-on-the-cross, where I'm Jesus?"

"Yeah, come on!"

Before I know it, they haul off to Pilate, Herod, a cross, resurrection, miracles at my elbow.

Monday, January 11, 2010

Change of Plans

The surgeon's office called. His favorite assistant for cataract removal is GONE this Wednesday. Sooo, surgery is canceled. We're waiting a week. Now, the big day is January 20. Don't you just love a surgeon who makes everything perfect for a delicate procedure? AND, turns out he performs this particular surgery almost every week. A practiced hand, what a gift.

So, what sort of questions should I make sure to ask before the big day? I feel like I should know, but haven't got a clue. I guess there are the obvious, like when she can last eat or drink, but other than that I'm sort of floundering. Any friendly advice?

Sunday, January 10, 2010

The BODY Book

"It's something I saw in the Body Book," she says.

"Oooh. So, it's sort of alive and something you saw in the Body Book?"

"Yeah." Janie grins and dips her grilled-cheese in a ramekin of salad dressing. We're playing Guess What I'm Thinking. She's winning.

Before we know it Jane describes a cut she used to have on her finger and how inside it looked just like in the Body Book.

The Body Book - 912 color pages of well, the BODY, human anatomy. It spells out every system and part of the body. I'm sort of a nerd; I love books like that. The children POUR over it.

"Yeah, but you can't really see it," she continues.

"Ok. But you said it's pink?"

Janie bobs her head up and down, "Yeah, and sort of comes out of your back and into your arms."

Daddy grabs the Body Book and the hunt is on. We look at skin and bones, fingers, joints, nerves, and finally settle on MUSCLES. That's it, muscles! Even though we guess her idea, Jane shines. We're playing. Isn't that how kids say, I love you, at play?

Friday, January 8, 2010

Simple Things

'"Coat, coat!" she chants. Lulie grabs at my elbow and waves a brown coat in circles. Never mind the bare feet, she's suiting up.

"Oh honey, you don't need your coat. Go play." She's a whirlwind of clothes. Froofy dresses, sister's socks, brother's unders pulled up to the waist through one leg-hole, a shirt or pants from two seasons back, she loves fashion.

Now, a lap or two around the house, she's back, "COOoat, ME!"

"Do you think you're going outside?"

"YEAH." She grins.

I sigh and wriggle pudgy arms into the coat. Still no shoes.

"Help-me, help-me." She gestures toward the kitchen. "Help-me, help-ME."

As I round the corner a gust of wind blows through the window. "JANE," I call. The window is WIDE open, no screen. "Janie, WHERE are you?"

Lulie's climbs onto the table bench, barrels up to the window bare feet and January frost no deterrent. "We're OUTSIDE, Momma!" Janie calls. "We climbed THROUGH the window!" Over the table and through the window, proud as punch, a practically perfect day.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

A Little Glob of Love

It's a tumult in the bathroom. Pudgy feet pad down the hallway, and Lulie rounds the corner. Someone said, "Toothpaste," and Lucy's on a dead-run. Half-pajama-clad, she's shouting, "Me! Me!" In the bathroom Jack's usually on the counter dispensing water. Janie polices various toothpaste tubes; miscellaneous clothes scatter the floor. A squashed toilet paper roll is discarded in the corner.

Jane grins at Lulie, "Oh, you're coming in joy," she says. And in a moment of Biblical theater she exclaims, "Your faith has made you well. Here let's put more yummies on." Lulie's toothbrush is only partly saturated in spit, but she beams as Jane plops a generous blob of paste right on top.