Today has been a much longer day than yesterday.  Emily's progress has been slower than she would like, and she remains on the ventilator for now.  When I came in this morning I saw the look of disappointment on her eyes knowing today would not be the day that would happen.

Until a few days ago when Emily's face became almost totally paralyzed I hadn't really consciously considered how important our eyes are to expressing our emotions.  I suppose I knew this instinctively, but I had always thought of eyes more aesthetically and less pragmatically.  Without the rest of our facial muscles, however, the eyes bear the burden of proof.

Eyes are powerful communicators.  Consider the corrective glance of the seasoned mother as she silently conveys her displeasure to her child, or the unavoidable and haunting eyes of Picasso's Guernica.  (sorry about the Picasso, but Thomas Hopper told me he was talking about Job in Sunday school, and Job made me thing of the unmitigated suffering in Guernica) Every pair of eyes tells a story.

This story has a happy end, however, so bear with me a bit.

About an hour ago as the nurses were about to change shifts, Emily's nurse (who speaks with considerable alacrity) asked her about her favorite kind of soda.  Emily momentarily rolled her eyes (yes she can do that now) because she's growing tired of people talking about food around her.  Being fed through a tube can do that to a person.  But to humor the nurse she began to spell out "Coke."  

The nurse said, "well, how about if we put some coke on some foam swabs and let you taste it?"

I have rarely, if ever, seen such a look of unbridled joy on Emily's face.  Her eyes told the story.

Our floor was out of Coke, but our nurse went all the way to a different floor to make it happen, and Emily had her first taste of Coke in over a week.  Perhaps today wasn't such a disappointment after all.

Baseball

One of the things Emily and I have enjoyed the most about living in the great city of Durham, NC is the opportunity to see some great baseball.  Our proximity to the Durham Bulls means that we've had the opportunity to watch many sweltering summer afternoons turn to slightly less sweltering summer nights under the bright lights of a ballpark.

I love baseball.  This might be heresy in these parts (especially during march madness) but baseball is the one sport that I find completely engrossing.  Don't get me wrong, we spent the first two days of Emily's hospital stay watching basketball, and actually asked the nurses to hold on a minute when they tried to bust in on the last 30 seconds of the Duke game, but there is yet some magic in a baseball game that exists nowhere else.

I'm the guy who loves baseball to the extent that I often keep score.  I sit there - all night - jotting those marks on the score card that are decipherable only by the 9 or 10 other baseball nerds in the stadium who are doing the same thing.

So for those of you who are keeping score, Emily's score is currently 34.  That is, the reading on her breathing test is currently -34 (I know it sounds more like a golf score).  Every morning they test how much air she can breath in on her own.  This is called a NIF.  I don't know what those letters stand for, except the middle one is for "inspiration," and that is what this test has been. It is Emily's inspiration to work hard to get off of the ventilator.  Last Thursday her score was in the low teens, and over the past four days it has gone from 18 - 22 - 25 and finally today she astonished everyone with her 34.  It was the first thing she signed to me when I arrived at the hospital this morning.

She needs to be in the strong 40's before they take her off of the ventilator totally, but she's getting there.  

Here's the other thing about baseball.  It takes a long time.  It takes such a long time that they have to build in a time for you to stand up and move around because you've been sitting for too long.  It is a game where sometimes the action is slow, and other times it is fast.  It is a great drama, full of subtlety and surprise.  

Recovering from Guillain-Barré Syndrome also promises to take a long time.  It will be filled with slow days, and at times miraculous ones.  It has already been full of small miracles and the subtle signs of God's grace.  

I am the sort of person who is not inclined to try to explain this  sort of meaningless suffering.  In my experience sometimes suffering is not logical, it is not explainable, it just is.  I am also stubborn, and not inclined to listen to other's when they try to explain that this is part of God's plan.  I do not believe this to have any place in God's plan, but I do believe that God is present even in this.

In this season of lent - while we wait - I look forward to Good Friday and if we are discussing logic and meaning and suffering, there is nothing less logical than the crucifixion.  Creation killing it's own creator is the most supremely illogical concept that I can imagine, and yet there it is.  And in the midst of it, there is God.  Not fixing things, not explaining things - hanging on a cross and suffering with us.  God chose to be with us not just in power and glory, but in pain and weakness and suffering and blood and death.  God is also with us in room 4209.  In this knowledge I have drawn strength.

Sorry for the long post but, if you're keeping score, it's shorter than your average baseball game.

A note from Emily

I just got home from the Hospital, and Emily wanted me to tell you all thanks for your prayers.  

She also made me read all of the entires thus far, and mentioned (in sign) that she will be happy when she can write them herself.

Ruth Ann the (almost) therapy dog

Many of you know our little girl Ruth Ann.  She's a golden retriever and she's about 15 months old.  One of the initial hurdles to overcome in this whole episode was figuring out what to do with her while I was at the hospital.  I didn't want to leave Emily alone, and it didn't seem quite fair to leave Ruthie alone all day either.  

She's a people dog, and she lives up to her biblical namesake.  Wherever you go, she will go, and your people will be her people.  I could tell she knew something was wrong, and that she severely missed Emily, and so when Luke and Annie Lingle offered to take her in for a few days I decided to take them up on it.

After spending a few days at their house, she came home when my parents and aunt and uncle arrived in town to watch over things for a little while.  It was nice to have her sleeping next to my bed again.

I say all this to get to this part of the story - today Ruthie became an (almost) therapy dog when she went to visit Emily at the hospital.  

Emily has steadily improved since yesterday.  Her breathing capacity has improved, she can move her right arm from the elbow down and she is gaining control of her left.  She can pick her head up off the bed for a second.  More small signs.  

And so, Emily's doctors and nurses decided that she was progressing well enough that perhaps it was time to go mobile.  They moved her into a more mobile bed, hooked her up to a portable ventilator and wheeled her outside into one of the hospital courtyards.  I walked Ruth Ann right through the front doors of Duke hospital, and right down the hall to the courtyard, and for 20 glorious minutes she licked Emily's hand, and sat there dutifully as Emily petted her on the head.  She was happy to see her mommy, and I'm reasonably certain Emily was happy to see her as well!  :)

Today has been a good day.

Large coke please

Yesterday I mentioned to those of you who have been following this on facebook, that at least Emily's sense of humor was in tact.  When she was intubated she lost her main method of communication, which is not an easy thing for someone who communicates for a living.  

She couldn't speak with her mouth, so she began to sign to me.  I, having no idea what she was saying, went home and printed out a sheet of signs and began to learn the alphabet.  Two days in, I'm pretty good at figuring out what she's spelling and anticipating what she's saying, but at first it was rough going.

The first thing she signed to me were these five words: "I want a big Coke"  followed later that day by the unmistakable message of the horns \m/ - "I want to ROCK!"  Tony the nurse chuckled when I deciphered that one.

Today has been a better day all around.  She can move her chin and open her mouth.  She can lift her right arm off of the bed.  She can wiggle her toes.  Soon she'll be rolling her eyes at me again.  These are small things, but I believe they are signs.

Her breathing is also markedly stronger.  Not strong enough yet to breath on her own, but the ventilator is helping her to sleep, and to heal.  The doctors are encouraged by her progress, and after many days of darkness there is light.

There is still a long road ahead, but perhaps we are going the right direction.

waiting

Sam Wells says that "if you can't make it happy, make it beautiful."

In the case of Emily's current sickness, I'm not sure I can make it beautiful yet, but perhaps I can make this meaninglessness a bit more meaningful, and keep you all as up to date as possible on her condition.

It's been a week since we first arrived at the emergency ward at Duke Hospital. A week ago Emily was walking and talking to me; now she is lying in bed nearly unable to move, and speaking through signs. As you all know she's been diagnosed with Guillain-Barré syndrome. I wouldn't say you should trust Wikipedia as the answer to all of life's questions, but in this case it gives you a pretty good overview of the condition.

I'm surprised this morning that I am beginning to have words with which to talk about this. I still don't have many, but I'll try to put these few to good use.

Emily is currently on a ventilator, and mostly paralized. This, I am told, is part of the process and it will improve with time. My only hope is that we have hit a plateau of the worst symptoms, and things will get better from here. I've been afraid to leave her side for the past few days because it seemed like everytime I did things got worse. Yesterday, however, after having some time on the ventilator she was able to sleep and get some much needed rest. She has finished her treatments, and so all there is to do is wait and see, and pray.

I think I am finally able to pray again as well. The first day or so there was no word from the Lord. Certainly God's people were surrounding me with their love, but I was curious as to when God himself might show up in this situation. After a shouting match between God and myself (well, perhaps God just listened while I asked what the hell this was all about) I came to a place where we were at least on speaking terms - tenuous though they were.

I have no answers yet, but three things have helped. First, the outpouring of love from my family, my church family, and from friends. Secondly, being the season of lent I know that sometimes we must be satisfied to wait. Finally, I have been encouraged by Tevia from Fiddler on the Roof and his candid conversations with God. They have given me a language with which to speak.