Marriage Moats- 5 Inches Long

Published: Wed, 01/26/22

5 Inches Long	Caring for Marriage
Sometimes scary things feel big and long. I know the eleven days I spent with my baby in the hospital when he was five months old with severe failure to thrive felt like eons. I forgot what sunshine felt like, and was shocked to blink in it again when we went outside to go to another building for an MRI. Then they actually let me take Benjamin home. I panicked. Life was a blur of caring for him, and I had no idea what my other six children wore or ate for those eleven days. All I remembered was holding Benjamin, nursing him, feeding him whole mashed avocados, taking copious notes, and praying. Gradually I began to calm down a notch. In fact there was a quilt meeting that I wanted to go to, which felt incredibly selfish to even consider. Yet, if I took all his medical equipment, just in case, and stayed only an hour, perhaps I could risk it. I gathered him up and started the drive along the Pasadena Freeway. Looking behind me to check on him every twelve seconds was reducing the quality of my driving, but I was nervous. Then the little voice inside me, the one I tell people they should listen to, said, "Go on the side streets." What? That was ridiculous. The freeway is faster and... and... "Go on the side streets." it repeated. Reluctantly I steered toward the off ramp and started up California Boulevard. This blue blooded street is lined with fifty foot palm trees. The car's speed decelerated. My heart rate slowed down. On my right was a hospital where I brought flowers to a baby who later died. At least my child is alive, I thought. Then I passed the rehab center where I had visited a teenager who swallowed a bunch of pills. At least I am not facing that. Then my car went over a bump, and in that instant my voice said, "This is a bump." I was outraged. How dare anyone suggest that this huge ordeal was only a bump. Harrumph. I arrived at the quilt store, and overheard the other ladies kvetching about the traffic on the freeway. Maybe that voice knew more than me after all. Twenty three years later, it does look like a bump, if only because the bumps have gotten bigger. I am not suggesting that it was easy. It was the on ramp to life with a special needs child that still leaves me scanning for the exit. But it has also been the road that John and I have traveled together, taking turns driving, sometimes playful enough to turn on the music and sing. Love, Lori Photo by Jenny Stein