Hope Needs an Object

Dedicated to Anabelle Rose Willbanks, my beautiful Belle.

Merriam-Webster defines hope as “to cherish a desire with anticipation; to desire with expectation of confidence.” I like those. Anticipation, expectation, confidence—all words that inspire, well, hope.

The problems of the world and of this life can look like ashes rising into a bright, beautiful blue sky if you know how to look past them and into the sunlight. That's what hope allows us to do- -find a way to look past them and into the light.

About five months ago, our then 19 month-old daughter was diagnosed with osteomyelitis. Her infection began as diskitis in her lumbar spine, and then moved to the two adjacent vertebrae and the surrounding muscles. We first noticed something was wrong when she began crawling everywhere, after having been walking for over six months. We thought at first that she was playing because we had just gotten her a new puppy, so we figured she was mimicking him by crawling around. Then, when she did walk, it was somehow different. Her steps were ginger, almost tip-toed. She pushed her pelvis forward as if to alleviate some pain somewhere.

Her mother took her to the doctor after a week of this, and he diagnosed her with constipation and put her on a stool softener. She was indeed constipated, but after that cleared up her walking did not improve. We just knew something was not right. Hip dysplasia? Bones spurs? Crippled? My mind spewed out questions as I tried to avoid the concerned look of family members when we pointed out what was going on. This went on for a few days, then one day she grabbed the side rails of her changing table, arched her back and whimpered in pain when I changed her diaper. Her mother and I took her back to see her family doctor; this time they did x-rays and immediately got her an appointment at the state children’s hospital the following Monday. After ten minutes with the orthopedist, we were checking her into the hospital for treatment. It all happened so fast our heads were spinning.

What is the first thing you do nowadays when you get a new diagnosis or need to know something medical? That’s right—WebMD, Google, CDC.gov, and on and on. After reading up on diskitis and osteomyelitis, we were terrified.

Debilitating effects…, …cancer is a common comorbidity…, …1 in 250,000…, …morbidity exacerbated by delayed diagnosis…, …mortality 2-12%..., …possibly caused by direct trauma…, …Staphylococcus aureus…, …possible MRSA…

These phrases were spinning through our brains. I began to wonder if we had watched her take her last steps a few weeks before. I saw children being pulled through the hallways by parents, loved ones, nurses and orderlies; children who were bald from chemotherapy and radiation. I wondered if our daughter would join them. I played the tape out too far…what if she dies? What if, at the very least, she’s crippled and in a wheel chair for life? How did this happen? Did she have a UTI and we missed it? Did someone at daycare hurt her? When was she sick? How could this be happening?

I snapped out of one of these query-filled assaults and realized I was staring at my daughter, strapped to a table, an I.V in her foot, being sucked into an MRI machine. Her mother and I were almost in shock. “This is surreal,” Jen whispered to me as she held on to my arm with her head on my shoulder. “Our baby’s sick!”

So was my stomach. I couldn’t believe we were there. Twenty month-old children who are all of 30 inches tall and 26 pounds just do not look right on an MRI bed with tubes coming out of them, wearing bright colored hospital pajamas and Velcro straps across their forehead and wrists.

We stayed in the hospital with our daughter for three days. Friends and family members visited. Hugs, kisses, and prayers were offered and readily accepted. Our daughter had a team of infectious disease specialists attending to her needs around the clock.

On the fourth day they inserted a p.i.c.c. (peripherally inserted central catheter) line into her right bicep, fed it through her brachial vein and into her superior vena cava. They then stitched a clamp to her arm to hold it in place and affixed a syringe attachment to the end so that we could administer I.V. antibiotics three times a day. That afternoon we went home and began our battle with whatever damned bug had invaded our daughter’s body. For the first two days a home health nurse came over and showed us how to administer the antibiotics—saline flush, heparin block, automated pump, and all.

Thirty-seven days later, after watching her blood test results (sedimentation rate and C-reactive protein levels, both of which are used to monitor inflammation) improve, worsen, and then eventually reach normal, her p.i.c.c. line was removed and she was then on oral antibiotics for the next two to three weeks. Prognosis: the two vertebrae that were attacked were partially eaten away and will probably fuse together as they heal, limiting her mobility but decreasing the pain. She will probably suffer from lower back pain in her twenties. “She won’t be an Olympic gymnast, but she can do other things,” the infectious disease specialist told us. “She will be an Olympic gymnast if she wants to be,” I thought silently to myself.

You cannot blame the specialist for his comments. He has seen this many times before and knows what he is talking about. But I know my daughter. She is strong. She did the splits over the ottoman a few weeks later…WITH her back pain. I am grinning from ear to ear as I type this. She will be an Olympic gymnast if she wants to be.

Five months ago we envisioned horrible things as a result of all that we saw, read, and heard. A battery-operated wheel chair, braces, crutches, back surgery, biopsies, transplants, chemotherapy and even death entered our minds as we tried to predict the future. Now, having witnessed her swift recovery and almost willful defiance of her own prognosis, I am filled with hope that my daughter will heal. It is not just a desire for healing, but an anticipation with confidence. I have seen the evidence. I have endured the fear. And now I look past the ashes once again into the sunlight. My daughter has proven to me that my desires are not misplaced. Therein resides the hope.

If you have placed hope in something that is inherently flawed, you can bet it will be dashed. People make mistakes. Money runs out. Jobs are never guaranteed to last. Our bodies fail us. Natural disasters await us around the next bend. Nasty bacteria make their way into children's spines. Nothing on this planet is infallible or completely predictable. Therefore nothing on this planet should be the object of our hope, our anticipation with confidence. A man once told me that when you find hope in Christ your expectations of people are lowered tremendously. And as pessimistic as that sounds, it actually takes a lot of pressure off of the people in our lives and the circumstance in which we live. Now that my hope is in Christ, if my fellow man fails me, I may feel disappointment, but I am not crushed. I look to the end game, offer the same forgiveness God gave me, and move on.

Hope needs an object. If you do not want to see that hope destroyed, be sure that its object is steadfast, eternal, and true to its word.