Einstein's Theory

During the summer that Parker was 3 years old and I was pregnant with James, we spent some time at Bay Head with my family. One day I was looking out across the street to the ocean and I saw a Mom and her little boy walking along the side walk near our house. The little boy looked a little younger than Parker. One of his hands held firmly to his mother's as she struggled to adjust her beach bag, folding chairs, purse and a small cooler on her shoulder. The little boy's other hand gripped the string of one, single, bright red balloon.

The Mom was struggling because her son kept stopping to lift his head and watch the balloon floating above him. He would jerk his hand to make the balloon bounce, and then he would giggle. The Mom would tug on his other hand, re shift the weight of the things strapped to her shoulder, and move on again. One time when she tugged at him, the string slipped out of his other hand and the balloon went sailing away.

There was a brief pause before he wailed, like that moment when you hold your breath right before you get a shot. The little boys agony was very real, and very loud. I could have heard him sobbing even if my window had been closed. To him, the loss of that balloon was the most magnificent and painful thing that had happened in his short life.

His Mom put her things down on the side walk, gave him a hug, comforted him, and wiped his tears. There was nothing she could do to ease his sadness. She understood his pain, but also she knew the loss of the balloon was minor in the big picture of life. She knew by the time they got to the old fashioned candy store a half mile away the balloon would be forgotten and her son's young mind would be engaged with the colorful striped candies on the counter.

The little boy wailed, reaching his hands upward, as the balloon became a tiny red dot so high up the sky had turned from blue to white. His pain was tragically real, the Mom's demeanor calm, but realistic. After a moment or two she stood up, gathered up the chairs and beach bag and purse and cooler, slung them back over her shoulder, took her son's hand in hers and moved on down the road.

I remembered that scene this morning when I went in to see Parker. He had a somewhat restful night (I believe because Audra was his nurse), but is still fighting the ventilator. He was awake when I got there, so I dressed in my "infectious disease' garb and went in. I took his hand very quietly, squeezed three times and said I love you Parker.

I can't ever tell if my presence is helpful or a hindrance. I try to get myself centered and very quiet and calm before I go in so I can have a peaceful effect on him. This morning Parker looked at me with a pathetic pleading in his eyes that clearly said, Please help me!

I know how badly he wants that ventilator out. I talked quietly to him and told him if he allows himself to sleep through this we could get it out much faster. He squeezed my hand tight, then pushed it away and kicked his feet, turning his face away from me. I had let him down.

Fortunately, although that was incredibly painful, I am able to see the big picture. I know it is there to help him breathe and breathing keeps him alive ~ the ultimate goal. So I quietly told him, It's okay Parker, I understand, I know you love me and I know how hard this is ~ I love you too.

He closed his eyes, took my hand again, and tried to go back to sleep.

God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the Wisdom to know the difference.