Head vs. heart
You know that feeling? The one when you're about to poison your child?
No?
So it's just me then.
We took Trey to the allergist back in April, after consuming a form of dairy did not produce any noticeable reaction in him. A dramatic skin prick test ensued, the results of which were surprising.
Trey's allergy level to peanuts has increased substantially. Three years ago it was labeled a mild allergy. Mild no more.
Milk, the true reason we had him re-tested, was a different story. His bloodwork level showed a decrease in severity from a level 4 to a level 2. Impressive.
Impressive enough to the doctor that we were scheduled for a milk challenge.
On Wednesday morning, we will go to the hospital, Trey will drink milk, and we'll see what happens.
I am so scared.
My head knows that this doctor has been practicing for longer than I've been alive, and he would not do something like this unless he truly, truly expected a good outcome. After all, he made sure to tell me that he has never had a child die during this procedure.
Thanks.
And I know that all of the indicators (lack of reaction to exposure, skin prick test, and blood test) point to the fact that God is working in our boy. We have been praying since Trey was hospitalized as an infant, while the doctors figured out what was wrong with him. Praying that, if it was His will, God might remove the allergy from Trey.
But.
How on earth do I harness my heart for this?
The heart of an admittedly overprotective mother who, in order to save the life of her child, has given free reign to her OCD, monitoring every drop and morsel that has entered this precious child's mouth for five years.
The heart that still aches over the day we nearly lost him because of this allergy.
How do I do it? Sit there and watch my boy drink poison?
My mind must win in this one, or at least I have to pretend such. Trey wasn't born yesterday. He is aware of his allergy and what he needs to stay away from. And yet very soon, the two people he trusts most in the world will encourage him to do something he has never done before. It certainly won't help his uncertainty to see his mother pacing and crying.
There is an outside chance he won't do it. The whole cry-til-you-throw-up maneuver is still the primary tool in Trey's get-out-of-stuff arsenal.
I used to judge parents who couldn't get their kid to do something. Yeah, I don't do that anymore.
In spite of the fears in my heart, I'm praying he does. And that there is no reaction, and that God will receive all the glory for healing our boy.
That I will be set free from the worry I'm not supposed to be carrying around in the first place. Set free from the arduous task of creating a medical action plan for the school nurse, oh happy day. That my son will be set free from being a special case every time he eats with a group.
And if all goes well we will eat pizza and ice cream every day for a week, glory hallelujah.
If not, glory hallelujah anyway. God is good. He is Protector, Provider, Healer, Redeemer, and the One who will guard my heart.
No?
So it's just me then.
We took Trey to the allergist back in April, after consuming a form of dairy did not produce any noticeable reaction in him. A dramatic skin prick test ensued, the results of which were surprising.
Trey's allergy level to peanuts has increased substantially. Three years ago it was labeled a mild allergy. Mild no more.
Milk, the true reason we had him re-tested, was a different story. His bloodwork level showed a decrease in severity from a level 4 to a level 2. Impressive.
Impressive enough to the doctor that we were scheduled for a milk challenge.
On Wednesday morning, we will go to the hospital, Trey will drink milk, and we'll see what happens.
I am so scared.
My head knows that this doctor has been practicing for longer than I've been alive, and he would not do something like this unless he truly, truly expected a good outcome. After all, he made sure to tell me that he has never had a child die during this procedure.
Thanks.
And I know that all of the indicators (lack of reaction to exposure, skin prick test, and blood test) point to the fact that God is working in our boy. We have been praying since Trey was hospitalized as an infant, while the doctors figured out what was wrong with him. Praying that, if it was His will, God might remove the allergy from Trey.
But.
How on earth do I harness my heart for this?
The heart of an admittedly overprotective mother who, in order to save the life of her child, has given free reign to her OCD, monitoring every drop and morsel that has entered this precious child's mouth for five years.
The heart that still aches over the day we nearly lost him because of this allergy.
How do I do it? Sit there and watch my boy drink poison?
My mind must win in this one, or at least I have to pretend such. Trey wasn't born yesterday. He is aware of his allergy and what he needs to stay away from. And yet very soon, the two people he trusts most in the world will encourage him to do something he has never done before. It certainly won't help his uncertainty to see his mother pacing and crying.
There is an outside chance he won't do it. The whole cry-til-you-throw-up maneuver is still the primary tool in Trey's get-out-of-stuff arsenal.
I used to judge parents who couldn't get their kid to do something. Yeah, I don't do that anymore.
In spite of the fears in my heart, I'm praying he does. And that there is no reaction, and that God will receive all the glory for healing our boy.
That I will be set free from the worry I'm not supposed to be carrying around in the first place. Set free from the arduous task of creating a medical action plan for the school nurse, oh happy day. That my son will be set free from being a special case every time he eats with a group.
And if all goes well we will eat pizza and ice cream every day for a week, glory hallelujah.
If not, glory hallelujah anyway. God is good. He is Protector, Provider, Healer, Redeemer, and the One who will guard my heart.
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