Live and Unplugged at Mott Children's

Now, I'll admit that our friend here was no Eric Clapton, but there come times in every family's hospital stay when you need something to remind you that there is fun to be had out there in the wide world. Thursday night at Mott's Children's is family night on the eighth floor, with music - live and unplugged - pizza, and a space to decompress a little. We only learned that Elliott could join the party when Monica, with her mom, Euan, and Annie in toe, struck up a timely conversation with a family in the lift/elevator on the way up. As Elliott and I arrived from his room and I scanned the resplendent scene before us, 'live and unplugged' was an apt description not only of old Clapton, but of the kids who had also made it 'out': no wires, no machines, no endless requests for blood, a bath, 'taking his weight', and meds, meds, meds.

Like Euan, not everyone was there to appreciate the music. Some of the parents in the room looked a little battle weary and were just glad of a brief reminder of the life they had left behind at home. Elliott and Euan soon got into the groove of our own particular home life: by attempting to maim each other. Elliott tried to bite his brother's wrist, Euan reciprocated by doing his best to make an incision in Elliott's other kidney. At least we knew where the nearest Emergency Room was.

Having the chance to remember that life does not typically revolve around prods and pokes, and that people do not normally wake you up in the early morning to tell you, essentially, the same thing they told you the morning before, is good. If all goes at least reasonably well with Elliott's arteriogram tomorrow morning, then we will get to return to California and to the sort of life that we have come to call normal as a family. We will get to re-member again.

 

Euan and Elliott's scuffles, and Euan's inability to stay still for a picture, are quirky reminders for the Mainwaring family that normalcy is not an unforgotten country. Yet, up in the that room on the eighth floor, and in the hallways and corridors of this hospital are families for whom the promise of normalcy is far, far down the road. I hope to remember them, as you have remembered us, in the coming weeks and months, as we pray in church for those who are sick, and for their loved ones, and with them remember those families who bear the pain of never getting to take their children home.

Hospital is a curious kind of environment. On one hand, there is an inclination that grows inside me that says, "I could get used to this kind of service". The staff at this hospital are phenomenal and always, and I mean always, ask if we have more questions, and if they are nurses, if there is anything they can get us. On the other hand, hospitals are crucibles of the human struggle for survival that can leave a mark in the soul. As a hospital chaplain, I always dreaded getting a page during the night to go to the pediatric units, because the reason was never good. Excellent service aside, we will be glad to head back to 80's F and the blue, blue sky of home, to play in the back yard, to cycle along the boardwalk by the Pacific Ocean, and to close the door at night and know that we made it through to the other side.