let's go brandon

on what should actually be breaking our hearts

In old age we should wish still to have passions strong enough to prevent us turning in on ourselves.

—Simone de Beauvoir

at a labcorp near you…

I’m good at a handful of things:
1) Saying what everyone else is thinking
2) Making coconut cream pie with a highly imperfect crust
3) Knowing random facts about a myriad of dog breeds
4) Having my blood drawn

I know, you’re impressed. As you should be. I’m a highly impressive person. And as I have lately been able to flex the top three skills listed above, it was high time for me to get my blood drawn just to prove to myself that I still “have what it takes”.

In all seriousness, I’m actually a horrible “stick” as most phlebotomists have told me. My veins are tiny, deep, and they like to perform circus tricks when a needle is coming for them. So what makes me great at having my blood drawn is quite simply, me. I don’t mind the tourniquets that make my fingers go numb, the hot compresses that are lukewarm at best, or the shame I feel when the tech says “you’re really dehydrated”.

Yes, Karen, I know I am—it’s kinda my brand, ok?

I don’t even mind it when a particularly scrappy nurse starts physically smacking my forearm in an attempt to “wake up” my veins. I don’t mind them digging around with a little needle in order to find the vein they “just had”. I actually get a kick out of the whole thing. Watching a young and hungry medical professional come to their knees over my tiny, anorexic veins? It’s hilarious. That said, I also really root for the phlebotomist who takes their time and comes at my arm like a surgeon—measured and careful.

Such was the phlebotomist I had a couple of Fridays back. Her name was Teresa and she was a lovely, scrappy, soul. I told her my mom’s name was Teresa and she told me about her grandkids. It was a pleasant interaction and she got me with one poke. She was a master (and I was well hydrated). But my interaction with Teresa or my overall bravado at being a good patient isn’t what left me clutching my shoulders sobbing in my car not five minutes after I left the LabCorp.

the blood from our veins

I was waiting my turn to be called when a young boy and a white haired gentleman entered the lobby. The little boy couldn’t have been more than four years old and his blonde hair and sweet face reminded me of my own boogery preschooler at home. I gave him a small wave and he smiled as the man stood at the kiosk and attempted to check in. It was obvious they were there for the boy. The man spoke in gentle, hushed tones, but the way they speaking made it even more obvious that this was not the boy’s grandfather. They stood there like two strangers who had been assigned to one another, both obediently holding hands as if they had been told to do so. When the man turned around for a moment, I realized who he was.

A lanyard with an encased name tag swung around the man’s neck. My heart dropped. I knew who they both were.

I really have to go to the bathroom.
Oh, ok Brandon. Give me one second and we’ll find you one.
Will my mom be here today?
Uh, erm, no…not today.

Brandon stood next to who I now assumed was his social worker obediently, but his eyes darted around the room. He looked desperate. In a manner of seconds there was the soft sound of liquid hitting a carpeted floor and the social worker looked over at Brandon.

Oh dear…I’m sorry buddy, I thought I could finish up. I guess I didn’t have enough time. It’s ok though, I have wipes in the car. Let’s go get you cleaned up.

I told the man that if they called their name I would let them know where they went. He thanked me and they rushed out to get Brandon as cleaned up as they could.

Back in a flash, Brandon returned with wet shorts but cleaner legs and shoes. The worker carried a container of wipes under his arm and he sat in a chair and let Brandon stand next to him and watch Paw Patrol while they waited.

Shortly after this moment, I was ushered back to have my blood drawn and a minute later, Brandon and company were in the stall next to me. He sat bravely in the worker’s lap, allowing the phlebotomist to ready his little arm. A moment later, I heard a sharp cry, and my heart broke. I wanted to rush over to him and hold him, tell him that it wouldn’t last long. My chest contracted and I widened my eyes, attempting to keep the hot tears that were forming from pushing their way out.

In a matter of seconds they were done and Brandon went silent. He sniffled a bit, but this was a child who had known true pain. The blood draw was over and his brain had moved on. The worker led him out, praising his bravery, and I followed them shortly thereafter.

As the worker fastened Brandon into his car seat, I searched for a second pair of shorts that surely I had stowed away in the car for possible moments like this. All I could find were shammy towels, but I offered them anyway. The worker smiled and thanked me, but declined.

I think we’re ok. We’ll get him changed soon.

He shut the door and I waved at Brandon again, who smiled sweetly and waved back. My eyes filled with tears again. He had wanted his mom and she wasn’t there.

Are you his social worker?
No, I’m just a helper—an SSA.
Well you both did great. He seems like a really special kid.
He does doesn’t he? I think he probably is.

the blood in our hearts

I went back to the car and immediately let out a sob. I couldn’t keep it in. They drove away and I sat there shaking. The parking lot was quiet so I continued to cry and started to pray.

I prayed for Brandon, that he would feel seen and known and loved. That God would keep him in the palm of His hand. That wherever his parents were, that they’d get their act together because he needed them. He wanted them. And if they couldn’t, that an adoptive family would scoop him up and love him harder than he could have ever imagined. And that God would love him in a way that Brandon would know he was loved by a good, gracious, BIG God.

And then I prayed for Sam. And I sobbed some more.

Once I got home, I wrapped Sam up in a big, “mom-you’re-hurting-me hug”. I told David what I had witnessed. Neither of us really knew what to do with it, so we just hugged each other and loved on our wild boy with a little more compassion that night.

sam with his chicken hair and blueberry smeared face, ready to conquer the world one LEGO set at a time

DNA

Two years ago I was sitting in an anxious heap waiting for Sam’s case worker to let us know if we were going to be able to adopt him in October or if his adoption hearing would, once again, be pushed out. Maybe November, definitely by January—that’s what they said. We held it all loosely because we knew the slow and arduous ways of DHS, but we still held it.

This summer we were reminded of how our bodies have kept the score. Our bodies remembered Sam being returned to our care after being briefly reunited with his bio parent in August of 2020. Our bodies remembered visitations with his bio parent in July 2021. My body remembered being cut open 26 years ago in mid August to correct my congenital heart defect. I can tell you for a fact—you may not remember things but your body does not forget. So our summer has been hard because even though we’ve been to the river with friends and grilled burgers and watched movies and picked flowers, our bodies have reminded us of hard things we did years prior.

So I know that Brandon’s body will remember this summer too. He might not remember wetting his pants in the lobby of a LabCorp, but his body will remember the lack he felt being there without his mother.

Most recently, I’ve heard the cry of friends and neighbors bemoaning the end of summer, but I’m ready for autumn. I’m ready for a chill in the air and for more structure to our days. Autumns in the history of our family have been stabilizing and so I hope our bodies remember that as well. I hope that Sam’s body remembers that I wore him for hours at a time and took long walks with him as a baby in the fall. I hope that his body enjoys the subtle routines we have ahead of him. I hope he gets stronger, wiser, funnier, and kinder (although he is already very kind). I don’t share a lick of DNA with Sam, but our bodies have slogged through many of the same swamps. Our bodies are bound by memory and our hearts with a chosen love.

This autumn, Sam will continue his jiu jitsu classes and I’ll cheer for him from the sidelines. I’ll pick him up from preschool and I’ll commend him on being a good friend and listener. I can’t take away any of the trauma he’s experienced, but I can be in his corner. I can root for him.

That’s all any of us can ever really do. We can call the friend who always calls first. We can initiate the play date. We can ask the hard questions that everyone else is too afraid to ask—the “how are you, really?” questions. We can read the room and hold our tongue when it needs holding, and we can read it again and speak up when people are hurting. We can see one another. We can stop superimposing our lives onto other people. We can live in our seasons. We can choose to love folks because they are lovable and not because it would be a good ministry.

We can root for one another.


Always,
Emily

P.S. Wherever you are Brandon, I’m rooting for you.