Fine.

I wasn’t frustrated. I wasn’t upset. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t saying, “No rush.” I was saying, “No. RUSH.”

I was angry - at God. 

Yes, I had a healthy, handsome baby. But that wasn’t enough for a God I believed would work a miracle. 

Before he was born, they told me about the chances of the mass disappearing. It didn’t, but he made it to term. When he was born, they did ultrasounds and X-rays of his chest, I thought they would tell me it was gone. It wasn’t, but he was here. Six weeks later, we went back to the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) for a CT, I just knew they’d rule out the need for surgery. Nope, but he was healthy and happy. Seven weeks later, this past Thursday, we went back to CHOP for his pre-operation appointment. 

Ok, here’s the height of the anger. You’re really going to make my three month old go through with surgery? You could make it go away with the snap of Your anthropomorphized finger. I mean, You created the wind with Your breath, the seas with Your voice, the sun with Your light, You can’t do this one, little for You, thing for this little being You made. Ok, he can’t talk, he can’t ask, and actually, he’s unbothered. But, can You do it for me? I’ve been asking and I’m incredibly bothered and I can’t believe You are doing this. Fine. FINE. 

At my first meeting with Dr. Alan Flake, I was still pregnant. My maternal fetal medicine (MFM) doctor assured me that he was the best. And if she didn’t, he surely would. Like everyone else we’d seen at CHOP, with remorse and sincere care, he told us how lucky we were. How, of all the things he’d seen and cared for, a lung lesion is one of the easiest things to deal with. He didn’t discredit our pain and concern for our first unborn child, but he did let me know that he’s “the best in the country. ...Actually, the world.” The surgery would be done thoracoscopically (three very small incisions on his side done with a microscope), the recovery would be two days max baring complications (such as the need for a chest tube, blood transfusion or narcotic drugs), from the start of anesthesia until he wakes up would be 3 1/2 hours, and off the top of his clearly genius head he gave me all his lobectomy statistics, which impressed the not so easily impressed. I didn’t feel lucky, but I was more than confident in his abilities, and I also told myself his surgical prowess wouldn’t even be necessary. God was going to heal Honor all by himself. 

Then Thursday came, he showed Kev and I Honor’s CT scan results. He told us the mass could possibly be disconnected from his lung, but they’d still take some of the lung to be sure that it didn’t and won’t effect anything now or later. It wasn’t small. At all. I was surprised at how unaffected Honor had been since birth based on its size on the screen. I asked him more questions about complications, his hospitalization and pain management. I was still confident and still very angry. 

Then, we reached out to the squad. Everyone we know who knows how to pray. AND THEY PRAYED. 

Friday morning came. 6 AM arrival. 6:40 check in. Nurse. Nurse practitioner. Anesthesiologist. Surgeon. Operating room nurse. 7:20 OR. I cried about 4 thug tears. 8:24 surgery start. I somehow managed to eat and laugh with my husband and parents as we waited. As early as 8:30, my Dad asked if every man who came out with a surgical hat was our doctor. We joked about surgeons taking smoke breaks. 9:47 Dr. Flake walked out and directly toward us. I thought about the smoke break joke and instantly got mad. This was supposed to be a three and a half hour procedure, what are you doing here sir? 

“We’re done. Everything went extremely well. It’s always a good thing when I come out early. Remember when I mentioned it could be disconnected? Well, it was. I only removed the mass and left his entire lung in place. No chest tube needed. He’s already waking up.” 

Ok. Fine, I see what you did here God. 

Just because it wasn’t some supernatural, unfathomable, inconceivable miracle, doesn’t make it any less of a miracle. 

“Miracle - an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs.”

I was told to terminate, but I didn’t accept that option. God grants wisdom. Miracle. I discovered CHOP, and we were two hours away rather than across the world. God determines location. Miracle. The mass could’ve gotten bigger, it didn’t. God manages bodies. Miracle. It could’ve caused heart failure and my son wouldn’t be here, he’s right here, right now. God gives life. Miracle. He could’ve been sickly and symptomatic, he’s not. God sustains life. Miracle. We could’ve been placed with any surgeon, we got the best. God promises exceedingly. Miracle. He could’ve had complications, not one. God moves hands. Miracle. He could’ve needed morphine to recover, only Tylenol. God regulates systems. Miracle. He could’ve had some long, terrible stay, but he was discharged by early Saturday afternoon. God works quickly. Miracle. He could have only two parts of his right lung, he has all three. God allowed that mass to be exactly out of the way. Miracle.

Spending time in a children’s hospital shows you how blessed you are. I’m blessed BEYOND measure. I’m holding a miracle and had the nerve to be mad at God. “Fine” is used as a signal of resignation, a simple word that shows pure frustration nearing the end of an argument. “Fine” also means of high quality or very well. The same word I used to express my displeasure with God, now describes the state of my son’s health to His credit. I said all this to simply say, your miracle may not look the way you anticipated it would, but trust me, if it’s done, God did it. 

Shoutout all my MFM’s. Shoutout Dr. Flake. Shoutout the surgical NICU nurses. Shoutout CHOP. But, they can’t do what God can. God healed Honor y’all. He’s fine. Miracle. 

8 “But if I were you, I would appeal to God; I would lay my cause before him. 
9 He performs wonders that cannot be fathomed, miracles that cannot be counted.
Job 5:8-9