Unfinished Season

A reflection from the middle of uncertainty, surrender, and being held

Content Note: 

This was written in real time, in the middle of an unfolding season. It is not tidy, resolved, or wrapped up in answers - it is honest. It reflects the weight, uncertainty, and quiet graces found while walking through medical complexity, separation, and deep surrender. Please read gently.

Life rarely goes as we planned, expected, or even hoped. Yet somewhere in the midst of the chaos and uncertainty, God shows up in unexpected ways to remind you that even in an unfamiliar city where you feel so alone, you are anything but.

As we entered into week three, there was a slow exchange - a rhythm beginning to fall into place as Christmas approached. There was hope and excitement knowing I was just days away from seeing Andrew and the kids. While we have spent a lot of time apart over the past year as I remained in the hospital with Logan, this would mark our longest stretch of separation as a family, and the weight was palpable.

The Weight of Waiting

Addie and Jax are both carrying big emotions - navigating the holiday season in a way that was anything but what they had hoped for or come to expect. They clung to December 17th as the date we would be reunited, even if only for a short time, as a family - which was all that truly mattered.

Much to my surprise, even Logan was excited to see his brother and sister… long enough to, I’m sure, annoy him.

There is a familiar rhythm when it’s just Logan and me for long stretches. His tender heart is always acutely aware of my emotions - sensitive to the stress I’m under. It’s a delicate balance: letting him know it’s okay to not be okay all the time, that I’m human too… and at the same time, not adding to his stress, guilt, or worry - the kind I know he carries deep down. How could he not?

This year has been anything but ideal, and yet I am grateful for the intimate time despite the circumstances. I am grateful for the way he holds me up. And despite towering over me - and being so much stronger than me now - there is a special bond that has been built through hardship and setbacks.

One day, I hope he looks back on this story and sees what it built within him - preparing him for something he has no idea awaits.

That’s the thing - we never prepare for setbacks, failure, or disappointment. We never prepare to have a medically complex, really sick kiddo. We never prepare for the thought that our family is going to navigate some of the hardest, gut-punching blows… and yet still stand in the glory and grace God provides in the middle of it.

What was meant to take us out only reinforced what God had already planned to strengthen and refine us.

A shift of perspective will do that.

Yesterday downright sucked.

I think I felt every familiar emotion of trauma all wrapped into one day - and I didn’t even have the strength to hold it all in or hide it from Logan. He’s gotten good at reading my body language, my eyes, my tone. He knows when something is just slightly off… forget gut-punching off.

Disappointment, fear, anxiety, panic - they hit like a train faster than I could respond, physically, mentally, or emotionally. Forget spiritually. My head was spiraling. All the tabs were open in my brain and nothing made sense.

It wasn’t fair.

The car was packed back home and the kids were ready to make the long drive to Boston that morning. Addie even had a countdown until she got to see her “soggy waffle.” Jax had said his holiday good-byes to his teacher, letting her know that he was “leaving for Boston to go see his really sick brother, and his mom was up there helping him, and he didn’t know when they would be able to come home.”

But life happened.

Andrew woke up with a 102.2 fever - and it only climbed as the day went on. A risk he couldn’t take bringing to Boston. My health, and more importantly Logan’s health, would be on the line if he did. It was sacrifice wrapped up in heartache and disappointment.

Then the phone calls started - from Jax and Addie, both hysterical for different reasons.

Oh, and as if the timing wasn’t already “ideal,” Logan was doubled over in pain: dry heaving, nauseous as can be, with a full-blown migraine… and it was our first time being late to clinic as we practiced pacing around the act of getting ready.

Trying to hold space for all three of my kids in the same moment - while equally exhausted - was the perfect storm for a tornado that blew through my day.

We made it to clinic - late and messy - but we made it.

No sooner was he out of my sight and I was updating the nurse than the first flood of tears started. As she hugged me, she let me have a moment and told me she would pass the information along to his team.

I walked back out to the waiting area where several of the other moms were still sitting. They instantly took note of my distress - equally impressed by how well I had held it together when I passed them less than five minutes earlier. There was space and understanding. There was shared disappointment, despite all of them living so close to the hospital.

They understand what life is like navigating this world with really sick kids. It’s the ebb and flow of the unexpected.

As I had my first meeting of the day - a family session with our OT, Paige - I felt like we finally had a chance to discuss the medical changes and plans from the day before with nutrition. A plan I felt confident in. One that made logical sense based on the goals being set to support Logan’s return to function.

It’s been over a year since we’ve had any real sense of what it even means for him to function - which, as the parent of a sixteen-year-old boy, feels like such a foreign thought to hold. And yet, it has very much been our reality.

Most days, when I leave the hospital in the morning, I go for a walk and find my way to a little coffee shop - not nearly as wonderful as Corner Grounds back home. I don’t think anything will ever match that special place. But nonetheless, it’s somewhere to sit, attempt to get some work done, and then return to the hospital to pick Logan up at the end of the day.

Some days I walk farther or explore other places, but most days I find myself gravitating toward a familiar space - one that prevents me from isolating back at the apartment.

A Table I Didn’t Choose

Today, of all days, God knew I needed more.

I usually try to find a seat or booth where no one can sit at the same table as me. Today, that wasn’t an option. The booths were full. The single tables were full. My only option was a longer table - one that could easily accommodate two people (four if you sat across from each other).

Most of the college kids had already packed up, and the place wasn’t as crowded as usual. I figured I might be “safe” if I spread myself out just enough - building a barrier, but one bound to backfire.

For a while, I sat alone. Eventually, a man asked if he could sit at the table. He looked anxious, kept searching. What I later realized - or at least think - was that his computer was dying and he needed an outlet. When another seat opened up, he quickly grabbed his things and moved.

It was the preparation for what would take place next.

About five minutes later, an older woman walked up to me and said, “This table looks large enough for two.” I smiled and told her I was happy to share.

As she sat down on my right - my earbud in, music playing in my left - she pulled out a book and a pen and took a sip of her coffee.

About ten minutes passed, and the table next to her opened up. She began to move her things over to create space. I smiled and I am still not sure what prompted me to blurt out "goodbye" as she looked back and laughed. Then she paused, turned to me, and asked,

“Is our reality subjective?” 

I laughed, holding back tears, and said, “Well… today I wish it wasn’t my reality.”

She paused and laughed, having no idea just how loaded that question really was.

She began talking about how it was never supposed to be this way - how everything was ruined a long, long time ago. I realized she was likely hinting at Christian theology, at the Garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve ate from the tree of knowledge.

I honestly don’t remember what happened next as the tears began rolling down my cheeks.

She reached for her book to show me what she was reading - what had prompted the question in the first place. We started talking about how mean people can be in this city, and how I had only been here a couple of weeks.

When she asked why, and I started to cry, she reached over to the other table, gathered her things, and moved closer - embracing me in a hug and praying over me.

As I shared parts of our story from the past year, and that I was up here alone, she looked at me ever so lovingly and reminded me that I was never alone - and that I wasn’t alone anymore.

The tears fell in waves, between laughter and shared stories.

She was the ripe age of eighty, yet looked no older than sixty at best. She was alive - full of spirit and life. Her eyes were warm, telling a story for the ages. Her voice was soft and gentle, her presence calming.

She reminded me of home.

She shared that she was a yoga teacher and invited me to her local studio as she gently asked what I was doing for myself - how I was taking care of myself right now.

Through tears, I didn’t really have an answer. The truth was, I was doing the best I could. I was going for a walk every day. I was sitting here, having a cup of coffee.

We shared similar stories of our upbringing, though decades apart. I shared the trauma I had walked through, the faith I had built, the mustard seed I was carrying.

She was gentle as I fumbled over my words and emotions.

I was drained, frustrated, and scared.

She asked what I was doing for money while I was up here alone, and I shared about my husband’s corneal transplant rejections - about being the sole provider for our family.

I laughed through tears as I said, “Well… I just filed bankruptcy last week. And today, I’m just sitting here waiting on God’s provision to sustain us another day.”

A perfect stranger - someone I had just met - was now holding the weight and strain of the season we are walking.

A season I still wouldn’t change. A season teaching me far more than I ever knew I needed.
A season of complete surrender - in every possible aspect.
A season of undoing and breaking generational curses.
A season shaping our family’s future generations.

A season that would break most - yet I have been sustained by the manna God continues to provide, day after day.

She let out a gentle laugh as I shared this - not condescending or judgmental, but one that spoke volumes without words, telling the story of a similar journey.

Without hesitation, she reached into her wallet and handed me a one-hundred-dollar bill.

The tears fell even harder as she held me closer, praying over me - reminding me that God is with me. That there was a reason she sat next to me that day. That there was purpose in our pain. Power in my son’s journey toward healing.

For a moment in time, the city felt a little less unfamiliar. It felt softer.

It became the moment in my day that didn’t break me - but braced me for what was waiting next.

As she packed up her belongings to head out and pick up her son from the airport, we exchanged numbers and shared one last hug.

Her name… Maybelle.
And to me, she was an angel.

When Safety Shattered

As I headed back to the hospital for the rest of my afternoon meetings, tears continued to fall as I tried to process what had just happened - the moment I wished I could bottle up and pull from whenever I needed it most.

Right before Logan was about to be discharged for the afternoon, I was pulled into an unexpected meeting. I was met by an unfamiliar medical provider - her words and body language abrasive.

The words coming out of her mouth felt so foreign, it was as if I had lived three entirely different conversations in the same day… and she had the wrong kid.

She wasn’t listening.

I braced myself for impact as I heard the words,
“If he requires G-tube feeds, then this is not the program for him.” 

Every defensive instinct in me rose immediately - the primal need to protect my child.

Trauma survival kicked in. The tears I had already been fighting didn’t stand a chance as the floodgates opened.

I was abruptly cut off and dismissed - anxiety, fear, panic, and uncertainty swirling in my head.

It took every ounce of me to walk out of that building and hold myself together.

Held by My Son

Logan instinctively knew something was wrong. Panicked and worried, he kept asking what had happened. I begged him to please just let me get to the car - to safety - before I couldn’t contain what I knew was coming.

As we got into the car, he grabbed onto me, and I couldn’t catch my breath. Tears streamed down my face, my eyes so swollen I could barely see.

“Mom… what’s wrong? What happened?”

Through gasps for air, I told him only what he needed to know.

Then he asked me,
“What are three things you can see?”

I laughed through the tears, gasping for air, knowing he was “psychology-ing” me. He laughed right back and, without missing a beat, asked again,

“What are three things you can see?”

I named the red car in front of us… something else… and the blue light to our left.

He followed it up with,
“Name two things you feel.”

Knowing what he was really asking - versus what he said - I answered, “Anxiety and panic.”

He laughed and told me that’s not how you play… but he’d let it slide.

Then he asked the final question:
“One thing you can smell.”

Nothing - because my nose was completely congested.

He laughed again and made me take three deep breaths.

He was proud of himself.
And in that moment, I was too.

We made our way back home, and as we walked through the door, I broke again.

The weight of everything I was carrying.
The weight of the day.

The weight of Jax and Addie calling from back home, asking what was for dinner - asking me to DoorDash food for them.

The weight of an exhaustion I didn’t want to feel.

I asked Logan to go check the mailbox, and when he came back up, he walked through my bedroom door holding a card - already opened - smiling.

“Mom,” he said, “it’s from Susan. And it couldn’t be more perfect timing. God’s timing.”

He said the card was “goated” and “pretty awesome” as he handed it to me and watched me open it.

God’s timing is always perfectly orchestrated.

I sobbed over the card as he held me and asked if I was okay.

The truth is, I don’t know if I am okay.

I’d like to think I am - and probably, for the most part, I am. But the weight of this past year - the crushing, the refining, the suffocating blows - is exhausting.

Christmas is a week away…
Santa is a week away…

And my husband is home with a 103-degree fever - unsure if we will even be together for the holidays.

An uncertainty that is not sitting well with any of us.

Jax was already struggling, but now the weight feels heavier. The guilt Addie carries - unspoken as it is - I know she feels responsible for Andrew getting sick. We sit on the edge of our seats, waiting to see if Jax will fall next.

And yet, we know we can’t jeopardize my health - or Logan’s.

A refining that is stretching what little I have left… beyond what I thought could possibly stretch.

It’s only 2 p.m., and already today feels like a never-ending gut punch.

The morning was rough. Logan was in rough shape. I was in rough shape.

He noticed and asked if I was okay. My swollen eyes and exhaustion spoke volumes. My answer today was honest and raw.

No.

Together, we were barely surviving - stuck behind a garbage truck on a one-way street, running even later to clinic than we already were.

After my morning meetings, I made my way back to the coffee shop to take a break before my next one.

And there - almost as if she had been waiting - was Maybelle, sitting with her son.

Her embrace was the one I desperately needed. As I teared up, I thanked her again for being such a blessing in a day that was anything but easy… and only grew harder after she left.

She hugged me, gently brushed her hand across my cheek, and smiled.

Still Being Held

So even in the midst of it all, perception still holds strong.

God is holding me - He’s holding us - in this season.
He sees my pain and meets it with gentleness.
He sees my burdens and provides provision.
He sees me.
He sees us.

He is right there, holding me up when I am too weak to stand on my own.

A season of perception shifting.
Heart posturing.
Surrender.
Praise.
Humility.

But most of all…

Healing.