Usually when Aaron is admitted, we have a fairly clear path now. We come in, get a usually familiar diagnosis, and we know the path it's going to take.
This time is different. We don't know. Not knowing is hard.
And it's a "bounce back." Those are emotionally much harder than a "regular" admit. Harder on me, harder on the rest of the family, too. I've been home a few times due to concerts and my own doctor's appointment. (I'm having to learn to type this left-handed, fun times.)
And the questions: "When is Aaron coming home?" "I don't know." "Can't you stay?" "No, he's all alone up there. I need to go back." And it's heartbreaking. I need to be there. I need to be here.
As I was coming back up last night after the Ballroom concert, I flipped on a CD. The first song was "Lead, Kindly Light" by BYU's Vocal Point.
I was driving west on the road to get to the freeway. It was dark. There weren't many cars on the road there and few if any street lights. And the line, "The night is dark, and I am far from home...." came on. And it hit me right there. It was dark. I was moving farther away with every mile. And I don't know what's happening, not really.
Aaron is still a puzzle and we're not sure we have all the pieces yet. No, I don't think this will be our "last admit." He's getting better, but he's been up here a whole lot more the last few months than he has in a very, very long time.
Over the last few weeks, our Trisomy world has been rocked over and over as little ones, older little ones, have grown their angel wings.
He is there. He does not leave me. He has not before, and I know He will not now or in the future. I can't see where exactly the path will take me. I don't know what's ahead in the short run. But He does and I trust Him.
And I found comfort and strength, and the ability to continue on.
So long thy pow'r hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone.
John Henry Newman
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