Mirrors

This morning, I remembered the faces of some of the moms I saw the morning we checked in. The moms--several of them who had been here a while--had looks on their faces similar to what I imagine soldiers faces might look like after having been on the battlefield for a while. There's just a sort of a 'no, I don't have any make up or hair products, nor do I care anymore' look. But it's more than that.

It's a look of someone who's been on duty for days, without a mental break or a cup of home-made coffee, or their routine, or little luxuries like a morning paper or maybe even clean underwear. The vacancy of the eyes, the unwillingness to make eye contact...they all contribute to the look of someone who has been on the front lines.

It occurred to me that this is a battle-against an enemy unseen, and often misunderstood, underestimated, pervasive, cunning and relentless. This enemy rests but never sleeps.

Now, I realize my position is not as dangerous as some of the front line parents who are battling every moment for the lives of their children. The little girls wearing pink caps so that you can know their gender, as the enemy has robbed them of hair....the children with vacant stares of their own, from small wagons or teenie wheelchairs--those are places where the enemy has battled and left irrevocable scars. I feel blessed and guilty at the same time, swapping stories at the family washing machines, or at the constant gathering at the coffee pot. I know some other moms might feel the same weird mix of blessings and guilt, when they compare their own situation to ours.

And this is not necessarily all a spiritual battle, though our ability to continue on is strengthened so much by our faith. There are so many moms I've met who are deeply, deeply ensconced in their faith.

This is a battle that includes faith, but also includes science, and even some art. The weapons are tenacity, employing the best strategists (doctors, neurologists, oncologists, etc.), and other arrows in the quiver, hugs, peaceful times, laughter, finding joy in the moments that matter. Laughter may not always be the best medicine, but it's a powerful weapon.

Some of us have been 'enlisted' in this army (all drafted, to be sure) for longer than others. Some have had longer tours in the front-lifetimes, even. Some of us have had frequent periods of shore leave, only to find ourselves back at the front, just when leave was starting to feel 'normal'. But looking in the mirror this morning I realized that the look I noticed on the faces of some of the moms who had obviously been in this thing for a while was looking back at me.

I don't mind being enlisted in this army. I'm equipped by those who pray for us, and I'm having a day where I feel ready for the battle. I may feel differently tonight when the lights go down and the entire hospital floor quiets, and I'm left to lie on the hard visitor's 'bed' in her room, listening to the occasional beeps and blips, and the thankfully infrequent code-calls, and best of all, my child's quiet breathing. That's usually when the enemy works the hardest on me though-through my own fears. That's when we move fully to the spiritual battlefield.

But for now, I watch my child reading some book from the 'pre-teen' section of Barnes and Nobles (something I would probably not have purchased for her, had I read more than just the outer jacket), and keep watch over my baby girl, ready to defend her with every cell of my being, knowing the worst, praying for the best. She's oblivious to the battle being waged in the heavens and on this hospital floor on her behalf.

I love her oblivion, her innocence. I pray that someday she will have children of her own and that she will never have to see what I saw when I looked in the mirror today.