My son’s tonsillectomy didn’t go exactly as planned. I was told it was an in and out procedure, we’d be home in a matter of hours, then a week of recovery. Bing. Bang. Boom.
Riley started vomiting once he woke up from his procedure. We stayed overnight because he had yet to drink/eat. The vomiting is bad for two reasons. One, it burns his throat, as you can imagine. Second, the force of the vomiting can split open his stitches and he could start hemorrhaging. That’s considered a medical emergency where they would cauterize the area. Every time he threw up, I braced myself for signs of blood.
The following morning, he continued to vomit. Then they discovered he had pneumonia. His temperature skyrocketed to 104 degrees. We stayed a second night as he still refused to eat or drink anything but ice water or ice chips. The poor little guy just stayed in bed, his face flushed, his eyes pale, quietly clutching his stuffed Mickey Mouse, watching cartoons.
Riley stopped vomiting about 26 hours after his procedure, and thankfully his stitches remained intact. But his fever hovered around 102. He still wasn’t eating, and we were forced to stay a third night.
There was a distinct moment where I was afraid I could lose him, and I panicked. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t stand up straight, my mind went berserk. I had to hide in the hospital bathroom so Riley wouldn’t see or hear me and get worried, too.
Then, a voice. Someone was there with me, my guardian angel or someone of that caliber. She reminded me that the universe doesn’t give us more than we can handle. In a matter of moments, I began to calm down. I knew then that Riley would pull through and he’d be coming home soon. I knew this because without a doubt I could not handle losing either of my children. I’d be done. Bottom line.
Anyway, I didn’t mean to get all melodramatic here but I wanted to talk about this because in the middle of one of those nights, I suddenly realized a truth in my life.
There’s a reason I haven’t given up writing. A reason I haven’t given up my goal of being traditionally published. It’s because the universe hasn’t given me more than I can handle. That’s not to say I relish the rejections or the constant self-doubt, but I know I haven’t reached my limit. That same voice that calmed me during the scare with Riley also helped me realize that although this writing game can feel horrendous, it’s not impossible.
Impossible would be waking up one morning and discovering I no longer have the passion to write. The kind of empty, lost feeling where nether worlds don’t exist anymore.
I have hit writing ruts, some lasting months or years. I have been rejected by literary agents and small presses. I have suffered from severe insecurity, where I don’t believe in myself. But on a better day I picked myself up and tried again. That shows me I haven’t hit my ultimate limit. No matter how awful it feels, it’s still bearable.
Riley came home after 3 1/2 days in the hospital. Even though he wasn’t eating much, he was keeping it down and his fever had decreased to under 100. The doctors felt he would recover better at home.
They were right.
Have you ever reached your ultimate limit with something important? What did you do?