Angry Days

They say there are stages of grief and that anger is one of them. I think I hit it today. How do I understand and comprehend all that is happening without wanting to punch walls and yell and scream and be violent towards something or someone?

For the most part Oliver is completely out to it. We can't interact much with him other than to give him cuddles and to pat him and rub his head as he sleeps. Fortunately that seems to bring him some peace. As he sleeps in his drug induced haze he cries out in pain - how? How can he still be feeling pain when he's already on more pain medication than some of the specialists seem comfortable with? I know it's not that easy, and I know that it's because he's all clogged up, but if that's the case, why can't they unclog him? If they can fight his cancer, surely they have something that can relieve him of his constipation quickly and effectively. If not for the medications he is receiving he probably wouldn't be in this pain. If they can put him there, can't they get him out. Again, I know it's not that easy, and they aren't the ones who have required him to need this treatment in the first place. And so my anger turns again and I ask "Why?"

Why does our beautiful little boy have to endure this pain and discomfort? Why has he been chosen to have cancer after less than 12 months of life? And not only him, but what of the other children on the ward. Why Ava, who is only 7 weeks old? Why Callum, who began his treatment when he was about 5 months old? Why Ryan, who at 16 has been associated with this ward since he was diagnosed with a completely different disease when he was only 2 weeks old? And the ward is full. Justice. Mercy. Love. Compassion. These are hardly words that seem to fit when considering these questions of why. They are only found in the people who surround us in this sad and grief filled place. At best I can only comprehend a God who is indifferent, disinterested in the plight of the children and their families who inhabit this ward, and this, and other, hospitals.

I know that some will say God is here. He is the compassion, mercy, and love that exists here. But I can't help but feel that if you let a train wreck happen, then you have some moral obligation to help fix it up. Maybe if you can allow a train wreck to happen, moral obligations don't rank highly for you anyway.

Oliver is not doing well at the moment. He seems to be continuosly hit by waves of pain which we think is discomfort from his tummy. Karli and I are taking it in turns to sleep in the room with him while the other sleeps elsewhere. But I can't sleep in here. If you could here him breath you would understand what I mean. Imagine the sound you make as you slurp up the last of a thickshake. This is what Oliver sounds like with every breath. The amount of mucus in the back of his throat won't let him take a clean breath. With each breath I sit and wait for the next one, hoping that he won't stop. I lay down to sleep but I can't relax. It makes me feel sick to listen to him and to sit helplessly by and not be able to fix him and make him better. I go over and pat his tummy and rock him and gently stroke his head. I wipe away the mucus that is draining from his mouth. I want to hold him, to pick him up and take him away and tell him it's all going to be OK starting now. No more pain and sickness. But the five different lines he has plugged in to him won't let me go more than a metre. I know he will get better. That this is a dip, one of the many, on our new rollercoaster ride of life. One of the deep valleys in this mountain climbing expedition we have been volunteered for. But I can't see that there will be many peaks to enjoy over the next year or so, and I can only see that there will be many valleys, and I pray that they don't get any darker and deeper.