We live in a culture of "invincibility thinking." Or... "It's not going to happen to me." "I'm not going to get hurt." "I'll be just fine." ... Etc.

There may be break through moments of reality where you see the true humanness of each of us. Red blood running down a child's leg after they fall from their bike. An elderly relative who passes away. A day of the 24 hour flu. But... each of those fleetingly passes by our consciousness. The leg wound get cleaned up, bandaged, and is all better in no time. The relative is near that age where people do pass away, and although sad, it "fits". They are sorely missed, but soon we are back to our norm. The feelings during the day of flu fun are deep, but they are forgotten as the flu subsides as quickly as it came.

Recently I set up our new crib in my bedroom. I know that when our new little one finally does come home, we will spend weeks and months working on bonding and attachment. One way we're going to facilitate that bond is by having her sleep in my room. I set up the crib as a day bed and will be pushing it up against my bed so that I am right there if she has trouble during the night.

I set it up early though. Because it's now Liam's bed; at least currently. I am now daily, hourly, sometimes by the minute, reminded of our mortality. Of the lack of "control" we really have as to what happens to us, as if I ever really had control before anyway. I am reminded every time Liam is quiet for even a few seconds in the car and I have to turn around to be sure he's not having a seizure. I'm reminded when my heart RACES every time he seems to be having one, when his eyes stare just a little too long without blinking, when I hear a funny sound from him, when he doesn't answer me when I call, and when I finally realize he's ok. And I'm thankful for those "ok's" because I know that sometime soon it won't be ok, it will be another seizure.

In our van Liam sits in the row behind me and just to the right. I am CONSTANTLY looking back on him. When we go to a movie he stares, a lot, and I will ask him what he thinks, or give him a tickle, to be sure he's ok. At night I check him when I go to bed. I check him when I hear a funny sound and/or no movement (if he's moving anything I know he's not having a seizure). I worry if he's not around for a couple of minutes. I worry when I see him asleep like this...

And yet, too, I know that this isn't much compared to what many families endure. Are enduring. And I have even more sympathy for them than I ever was able to before. And I pray for them. For us. For any parent having to go through watching their child go through something that we just can't control, can't help, can only watch and be there for.