We know that all people (believers or not) are part of a creation that is groaning under the weight of a fallen world. This includes broken bodies, minds and all disease and illness. The weight of the fallen world has been excruciatingly painful as I’ve watched Calvin succumb to the intensity of brokenness within his own body. Watching this brokenness has felt like it just might break me along with it. I am broken, but I am also more desperate and reliant on Christ in it.

This morning was episode 9,674 of strange things I never envisioned doing as a mother — training to operate a cough assist machine for Calvin. Essentially, it’s a machine that forces air into the lungs creating a mechanized deep breath and forced exhale.

The very word “breathe” makes my blood pressure ratchet up a few notches. Because the lack of breathing most certainly does not mean life and we’ve walked on tip-toe on this thin line for much longer than I thought my sanity could take.

My ears are tuned to breathing — its lapses, wheeziness, shallowness, it’s constant fight against collapsing airways and fluid. Ronchi, wheezing, pops, crackles, and gurgles are the lingo of the respiratory world I never wanted to know but essential in daily conversation with Calvin’s caregivers.

My eyes can quickly assess the results of struggle – bluish fingernails, dusky lips, retraction in the neck and diaphragm and the strong rhythmic movement of accessory muscles trying to compensate for lack of breathing.

So many times I have wished I could just BREATHE for Calvin and I find myself holding my breath more times than I can count.

We’ve done rescue breathing for him when he’s turned blue, sat up hours of the night trying to break up secretions to allow air to pass, fought panic as he spiraled into respiratory failure, and celebrated with joy as we watched him begin to take breaths independent of the ventilator in the PICU. We’ve begged and prayed a thousand times as a silent plea or urgent cry, please give him breath, Lord!

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