Your Yes or No

Your no is someone else's yes. And your yes might have been someone else's no.

"I have it all planned out--plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for." Jeremiah 29:11 (Message)

I still remember the very first child's file we ever inquired about. It was a little boy with an unrepaired cleft palate/repaired cleft lip. We were so entirely excited, because he seemed like he would fit in so well based on what we read about online. Before we could view the file, another family had already stepped forward to be his Forever Family.

The next file we inquired about was a little girl, and we were the ninth family to inquire about her. Again, we were so excited, but based on the sheer number of families in front of us, we realistically knew we would never see her file.

We did this two or three more times before finally deciding we just needed to wait until we were DTC (dossier to China). Getting our hopes up until getting an email saying that another family had stepped forward to view the file before we could was starting to wear on and discourage us.

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'"Jeremiah 29:11 (niv)

Then we were matched, just one day after our dossier was sent over to China in January 2016. To be matched means that a child with a medical condition that we had previously "checked yes" to was now available to us. It was the first file we had ever received and we were, basically, ecstatic. We read his file over and over again, and every time we found something to laugh about or something more to love about him. He loved bread. We love bread! Noodles and dumplings were his favorite. We could easily make noodles and dumplings our favorite! And even though he was young, he had a no-nonsense personality that we loved and felt like he would fit right in.

We were encouraged by friends to get his file reviewed by an international adoption doctor. While waiting for that appointment via phone call, in the days between we also researched his need and realized more and more that we didn't know if we would be able to provide the care he needed. The phone call with the IA doctor confirmed that there might be more going on than what was listed, and even though Derek and I were conferencing in to the call each from our own workplaces, we knew that ultimately, we were not the family for him without even needing to discuss it--all while the doctor was congratulating us on such a cute little boy, such a fun child, what a personality, etc. Even now, over a year and a half later, thinking about writing our agency to say no still makes me tear up a little bit.

We gave ourselves a week or two to recover, but I couldn't help myself and started inquiring over files again. One was a boy with mild cerebral palsy--and no one could find his file anywhere. Another was a boy that was listed CL/CP (cleft lip/palate), but it was obvious after reading through the file that there was more going on than what was listed.

Obviously, you all know where this is going. Only six weeks later from our first match did we get the call about Jet. Obviously, you know how that turned out. But that's not what I'm writing about tonight.

You see, for every single one of those kids, all of those files, you have no choice but to imagine your life with them. Or their life with you. Full of family vacations that you want to take, baseball games or basketball, (just hopefully not cross country) favorite foods, reading books in the car on road trips, kindergarten, eighth grade, etc. It's a future that is almost within reach, until something happens and you realize you are not the family for them, and they are not the child for you. And all of those hopes and dreams go away, and you feel that loss significantly.

"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'Plans for peace and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.'"Jeremiah 29:11 (esv)

And now we're starting this process again. We've actively reviewed one file with the intention to submit our yes, only to have it disappear before we could do so. We've received two more files over the past month that we've been "matched" with per our already filled out medical conditions checklist. One who would have been a great big brother for Jet, and another who would have been a fantastic little brother. Both of which were difficult "no's" to give. Both of which we had those dreams and hopes of a future, but neither were in God's plan.

A small comfort that we've clung to is "your no is someone else's yes." Almost all of the children that we've been matched with--and all of the children that we've inquired about--are with or have their forever families. One is already is in her forever home with Jesus. And we know that that's the way it was meant to be.

Because what is the end goal here? What is the purpose for why we are doing this? Sure, we want to grow our family. Jet needs a sibling desperately (desperately!). Derek and I desire a house full of kids and shoes everywhere with a slobbering dog that sheds all over and those family vacations where no one is really speaking by the end of them because we're all sick of each other--those are the things that we want. But the end goal? It's for these kids to have "a future and a hope." To "prosper and not be harmed." To "be taken care of."

"To not be abandoned."

We're so excited to be starting this process over again. We're excited to know a bit more (not much) about what we're doing. We're excited for Jet's new brother or sister. We're excited for "one less". We're excited to see what God's end goal is here. But we're also nervous. Nervous because every picture, every video, every anecdote and description and favorite food and personality that we see and read about for each one of these kids makes us more vulnerable. It's hard to decipher God's will with both our heads and our hearts involved for each of these children. We ask for prayers again, as we move forward. We have no idea when the next phone call will come. Prayers for clarity, wisdom and strength, and ultimately, to realize that we are being entrusted to care for and raise eternal souls by giving a home to these fatherless. Not our will, but His.

Thank you.

Day by Day

Day by day and with each passing moment, strength I find, to meet my trials here;
Trusting in my Father's wise bestowment, I've no cause for worry or for fear.
He whose heart is kind beyond all measure gives unto each day what He deems best--
Lovingly, its part of pain and pleasure, mingling toil with peace and rest. 

When I was little, singing hymns before the Sunday evening service was one of the highlights of the day. Soon, I was able to play these hymns for myself. Unfortunately, for my very talented piano teacher (and very talented mother, aunt, and grandmother) I'm not a performance artist; playing hymns at an evening service is about as much as you'll be able to convince me to do for the general public. For me, I get the most joy in playing for myself. There is nothing more calming than sitting down in front of the piano and losing myself in the notes and words in a song, especially when I'm stressed or anxious. This particular melody has been in my head on repeat for a little over a month now.

We're just past a month post-op for Jet's first surgery, and today marks exactly a month from his second. And day by day is pretty much how we made it through the month of April, and even now to some extent. Jet was in the hospital exactly two weeks, with eleven of those days intubated and sedated. We had been hoping for a stay of half of that time, and each day seemed a little bit forward and a little bit back. And every day, especially after the second surgery, we were told we would see what the day would bring. Every day, we were told of a new med they were trying, or one that he was taken off. Every day, we would hear the words "maybe tomorrow...maybe tomorrow." His failed extubation made them extremely cautious to try again and to be absolutely certain there would be no repeat performances, but that didn't make it any less hard to see him try to get comfortable, try to lift his arms to be picked up and held, try to pull at the tubes and wires and IV lines because he was burning through the sedation faster than they could administer. We're just past a month post-op, but time hasn't dulled those memories yet, if it ever will.

The month of April was another anniversary of sorts. It was just two years ago, when Jet was only three months old, that he underwent his lifesaving surgery in China, where he was hospitalized for 41 days. Forty. One. Days. Three failed extubations before the fourth one was successful. Weeks in the ICU, where, unlike here, visitors aren't allowed in China. And I can't help but think of Jet's foster mama, his Ayi, who fought for him to have the surgery and paced the hallways of that hospital in Beijing waiting for news. And we owe her, knowing that she does this for dozens of babies. Loves them as her own. Taking care of them as their "mama for now" before they're placed with their "forever family." And like any mother, I think I can safely assume she doesn't want our thanks or to be recognized, because she was doing what any mother would.

This past month has been a blur. It was the beginning of April and now it's almost the middle of May. Knowing what he went through in China doesn't make those two weeks here in the hospital any less hard for him, or for us. It doesn't make the recovery process any less hard for him, or for us. We're still dealing with withdrawal and the medications prescribed to combat that. Next week is a marathon of appointments and evaluations for cardiology, physical therapy, and feeding therapy. Before the month's end, we also see the pulmonologist and have another eye exam...and a hearing test. In case anyone is concerned, I'm 99% positive they're going to tell me his hearing is 100% selective.

It would be easy to get overwhelmed with all of the appointments and therapies scheduled. Actually, it IS easy to get overwhelmed...even easier to worry. But then I look at the pictures of where Jet was a week ago, a month ago, or even two years ago, and realize how far he's come...and that time was just made up of single days and moments put together bringing us to now. Realizing that the only reason we--he--got through them was simply because of God's grace.

I wrote this under a different photo, almost eight months ago now, and it's still fitting...Yes, we will pick up leaves and rocks and acorns and seeds and a worm. Yes, we will walk by our own self without holding hands or in a stroller. And yes, we're very thankful that our independent and ball-of-energy boy can and will do these things! 

We might overreact for sneezes and coughs after almost a year now of being on edge or waiting for the next cold to hit. Jet might be moving a little slower...or at least more cautiously. We might have a newfound appreciation for hand sanitizer (and that's saying something). We might seem worn down and tired and housebound and maybe a little crabby (the crabby one is two). But without those moments of pain and heartbreak and fear and anxiety, we would have taken for granted the moments of joy and peace and calm that have sustained us until now and will continue to sustain us, thanks to the many, many prayers said to our Heavenly Father for Jordan and for us. Thank you to everyone who provided meals, coffee stops, stayed at the house, cleaned the house, helped with the yard, visited at the hospital...we will never be able to fully express our thanks to you, but we appreciate and love each and every one of you. We will continue to take everything day by day, or moment by moment, and hopefully continue onward and upward as things settle back down for our new normal once again.

Even If

"They say sometimes you win some, sometimes you lose some..."

Post-op first surgery

This. This is how we've felt this past week. A week ago Wednesday we were just returning home from the hospital following a much longer surgery than planned. Per what we were told that night before we went home, we were anticipating Jordan being extubated Thursday but it didn't happen...and then Friday...and then finally Saturday was the day.

It's easy to sing
When there's nothing to bring me down
But what will I say
When I'm held to the flame
Like I am right now

Within minutes though of taking him off the ventilator, it was obvious something wasn't right. He was reintubated within minutes after his pressures dropped and his oxygen levels dropped to the low 30s and 40s. The epinephrine that was administered caused his healing heart to go into overdrive at over 200 bpm. It was terrifying.

But. Just as the nurse was seconds away, if not milliseconds, from administering a medication to return his heart to normal sinus rhythm, his heart rate dropped to the preset 120 bpm per the pacemaker. Just like that.

We do not believe in coincidences. We believe in a God who answers prayer. And we know people all over the world were praying for our son.

Although, true to form, once that ordeal was over with, Jordan being Jordan, once again confounded the doctors: he returned completely back to normal, with his body acting as if it should/could be extubated again. There were absolutely no signs that pointed to it not working, yet clearly there was something wrong. No more extubation Saturday, or for the foreseeable future.

Post-op Second Surgery

Sunday morning, the doctors conferenced and decided a CT scan was necessary. He was wheeled off with his entourage and back within a half hour while Derek and I "enjoyed" lunch. The PICU doctor on shift came to tell us it looked as if Jordan had an artery that was bleeding...not gushing, but trickling. That could be what caused the problems extubating--when the tubes were removed, the pressure from the fluid surrounding his heart and lungs caused Jordan's airways to close. We would know for sure shortly once the surgeon reviewed the CT. Derek and I just assumed it would be another couple hours, but no less than half an hour later the surgeon was standing in front of us, telling us Jordan needed surgery immediately to correct the issue. They still couldn't tell us what it was until they were in there, but Jordan would be wheeled down for his second open heart surgery within five days sometime in that next hour.

Yet, they discovered he wasn't bleeding or leaking anywhere--essentially his blood had coagulated too quickly to come out through the chest drain. Again, an answer to prayer? Possibly. This is where it gets tricky. The tests they ran could not 100% conclude that he had a bleed. Fluid doesn't show up on an echo, and his lungs looked clear on every x-ray. Who knows? But prayers were heard and answered, because the surgery was less than two hours and they were able to clear out the entire area of the clot.

However, he had another open heart surgery, and now his lungs were showing a bit of congestion by Monday. No extubation. Rest day.

Tuesday. No extubation. Echo looked great! Heart function fantastic. But no extubation and no plans to do so.

We've hit the highs and all of the lows. Maybe before this we were heart parents, but now...I feel like we've officially been inducted into the club. Passed the initiation. A routine repair that's been anything but.

They say it only takes a little faith
To move a mountain
Well good thing
A little faith is all I have, right now
But God, when You choose
To leave mountains unmovable
Oh give me the strength to be able to sing
It is well with my soul

Wednesday. Today. Tonight. Chest x-ray looks good and clear, chest drain is significantly less. And they plan to extubate tomorrow.

So here we are, a week later with Jordan's second extubation planned for tomorrow. How are we feeling? Tired. Worn out. Fearful. Weary. Will it work? If it doesn't, then what? Do we want to be there? How could we not want to be there? How much longer can we play this game? Yes. The longer he is sedated and intubated and resting, the more his body is able to heal. Yet, that doesn't offer much comfort when you see him fight his restraints, or shake his head no to every question, or cry with no sound and you can't pick him up.

But then Jordan reminds us in his more and more frequent moments of awareness that he's still in there. He's not able to speak, yet he's giving the nurses the side eye when he's irritated with them (which is often) and typically it's because he didn't get his way. He broke out of his restraints yesterday and it took three of us to get him situated again. He was determined to roll onto his side, and would not take no for an answer. He almost succeeded in pulling all of his lines out of his neck. He's on the least amount of meds since being admitted for surgery last Wednesday. The nurse said tonight if we didn't get him extubated tomorrow he'd do it himself. So moments like that? They give us the hope we need that the boy who ran toward his operating room to see his doctor friends faster than anyone could keep up with is in there, waiting to tell us anything and everything once he's extubated. He's still our fighter

And if not? If tomorrow doesn't go as planned?

I know You're able and I know You can
Save through the fire with Your mighty hand
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone
I know the sorrow, I know the hurt
Would all go away if You'd just say the word
But even if You don't
My hope is You alone

And so. Please pray with us that tomorrow, our boy will turn this major corner. That we can step down from the ICU. That he will be able to breathe and talk and eat and walk...sooner than later.

And even if that's not the case, pray that we will be able to continue to stay positive. That we will continue to believe in God's plan for all of us. And most of all, that we will still praise Him for the work he is doing in Jordan's life.

Good night buddy. See you tomorrow.