Not Thriving

My grandson was three weeks old and “not thriving.” That was the phrase used. In two words it captured all that needed to be captured.

That is not the phrase you want describing a newborn.

He wasn’t eating much. Not crying much. Not putting on weight. Sedate in manner. Breathing like a hummingbird. He was just not normal. Not what you’d expect from someone just breaking into this world.

His parents had him checked several times. Twice in regularly scheduled appointments and one trip to the ER. Each time O2-Sat and all the other tests came back normal. To those physicians he seemed normal.

So his mom accepted the diagnosis. For a few days at least. But doubt lingered.

Then one night, she knew something was wrong. No matter the tests. No matter the saturation of his blood with oxygen. No matter the doctor’s opinion. Something was off. He was just not … well … not thriving.

She plowed to the ER once again and pushed the issue. “Something’s wrong,” she insisted. Her momma bear was barking.

More tests and two more doctor reviews resulted in the same diagnosis: He’s fine.

She sat there confused, frustrated, not sure what to do. This was her third kid. Maybe a first-time mom would have doubted herself, but she didn’t. The bear growled. Instinct hummed. She didn’t leave the place.

Suddenly a female pediatrician walked into the room. She studied the boy for five minutes, just watching him from across the room, noting his breathing, taking in his manner, letting it wash over her. Then she stood up and stated: “I agree. Something’s wrong.”

Danica, my daughter-in-law, was right. So was this pediatrician.

Theo, my grandson, had a constricted aorta. Normally it was 5mm in width. His was 2.1mm. It was preventing blood flow. It was a wet blanket on his alertness. It was the source of the not thriving.

Over the next week, under the care of world class providers, his aorta was stented. His color immediately improved to a rich pink. His eyes opened and were inquisitive. His breathing normalized. Mellow turned to sharp. He finally appeared to be thriving. It will likely be a long medical road, as many things like this are, but at least the cause is known and treatable.

“Thriving.” I love that word. It captures so much. It is rich. When she described him as, “not thriving,” we immediately knew what she meant. It was a world of words. We needed nothing else.

But what about us? What about me? Am I thriving?

I’m not on the other end of the spectrum of life as Theo, but if life is a hill, I’m on the other side of it, coming to the part where it steepens, increasing my speed, arms flailing a bit, tripping up here and there, my bum knee chirping at me like a hungry bluejay, my sciatic pinching like an angry crab, various other ailments waiting patiently in the wings, ready to pounce, probably as innocuous as a pulled muscle from casually reaching for the shampoo in the shower.

For me, physical thriving may look more like surviving. But I can still stay active, moving, swimming, yoging, pickle balling, hiking, walking, working out, planting, building, and one of my faves: turning an unremarkable spot of earth into an eye-catcher. I will plant with an eye to five to ten years, move dirt, reposition rocks, bring water, nurse it like a baby, mix in a few seasons of time, and voila … a spot of earth you look at and think, “Now that is cool.” Come on you young thrivers … try that one on for size!

I can thrive in my brain. I can thrive in my ambitions. And I can thrive in my soul.

My brain: I’m learning new things; I’m stretching myself. I’m immersed in my latest binge: learning how to write historical fiction. It has my brain on fire.

My ambitions: I dream like a twelve-year-old boy. Not of Wimbledon anymore, but equally outrageous things. I dream of great things in my writing. I hope for success. My ambitions may never materialize but I’m going to strive for them anyway. As I used to say to my sons when they felt the pressure on the tennis court: “Air it out and go down swinging.” Well, I’m going to air it out and go down swinging.

My soul: It’s thriving, too. It is finding new things to stand in awe about. The latest being my wonder over the sheer size of the universe … way larger than we thought it was … way larger than it needs to be … way larger than even the sharpest mind in the world can conceive of … ridiculous in proportions. Purely ridiculous. And it has me wondering why? Why would God do that? Why would he be so excessive? Was it to humble us. Was it to show us our limited ability to perceive? Was it because he has other worlds out there with other humans created in his image?

I don’t have an answer. Honestly, I don’t think anyone does. And honestly, I don’t think anyone ever will. If it is for nothing else, it is to humble us. And to keep us in awe.

My grandson got what he needed … an opening of that which was constricted. Now he’s thriving.

I, too, want an opening of what is constricted. I want to thrive until I die. I want to go down swinging.

Won’t you join me?