Thank God that messes still happen

I didn't know when I wrote last update about losing children that we would, so soon, lose one more.

Writing about all the children we've loved and carried home was so therapeutic for me. But just like that our worlds were shaken again when we lost Kevin last Monday. I walked in the home ready for some December traditions, when instead I was told Kevin had died just moments before. He had been sick and seen the specialist and his doctor a few times over the last weeks, but after some new medications a few days earlier, he had had a very happy weekend with huge smiles, and he had been breathing easier. So this was a shock. Our plans of passing out candy soon turned to plans for another funeral for a child.

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Kevin came from a very rough family situation where his family was following the cultural norm in remote areas, and was allowing him to starve because of his special needs. Our friend Dick would visit him, and asked us each visit to take him because we was being left alone, soiled and crying.

We kept saying we were full and couldn't. Then Dick shared he believed he was days away from dying. So we accepted another little boy into our full home. When he was removed he weighed 13lbs and was skin hanging on bones. The weight he gained so quickly!

It took a lot longer to learn to trust.

He would cry every nap, every bedtime, every time he was in the next room from adults. We would go on time after time to tell him he was not alone, other boys were with him, and that we would come back- we would always come back because we loved him. In time, he learned he was loved.

Kevin loved the noise of the home, and being held. He loved sitting with his tia Terry, and when our nanny Sandra would pretend to hunt down mosquitoes and clap them in front of his face. He looked adoringly into Dicks face during those visits. He loved it when Papi Daryl sneezed like Donald Duck, and when I held him together with David. I would make David's low tone arm slap Kevin, and they would "fight" until both were laughing and Kevin was squealing!

There is so much more to say about Kevin- who he was, and what made him so special. He was so loved. My heart aches without him smiling from across the room when I walked in, waiting for me to greet everyone else and finally get to him-- or the way he would scream-laugh anticipating the pillow I was about to throw at him.

I love getting to be a part of the lives of our kids. But this is so hard.

Walking into the room now it seems like everything has changed. Things are a little dimmer.

His wheelchair sits empty until it is resized because our little Mimi needs one and small sizes are so hard to find. The thing is, his story really is still a happy story.

Had he died when Dick found him; dirty, crying, and alone, he would not have been morned. He would not have been remembered more than the broken child who died.

His life would have ended alone and unloved.

Instead, he died in a room filled with his siblings and caregivers who loved him.

Instead, Kevin was cherished. He had a connection with many people, and a strong bond with a number.

Kevin knew he was not alone.

knew he was loved.

He had some very happy final chapters.

But we are still here. We remember him and it hurts that he is not here with us. I've been at the Fulp home a lot because it is hard to be at home. Washing the dishes is hard. Making lunch is hard. All the small things that make up a day feel like insurmountable obstacles. Adding to the difficult emotions is the fact that David has declined enough that he finally needs a feeding tube. This has been many months in coming as he has slowly lost the ability to safely eat.

I enjoyed so many early Saturday mornings with Kevin and David. Now, in just 2 days, we lost Kevin and David has crossed a line making tangible the fact that he will slowly lose functions, and not gain them like other kids. Kevin is gone, and David is one of the fragile ones now.

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So here we are, and messes still happen. We still have to clean up spilled drinks and messy diapers. And we keep moving. At first it's on autopilot- just one foot in front of another. But it will come easier. We aren't in this alone.

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Last week, we placed a temporary NG tube in David as he goes through a few exams and his surgery is scheduled. That was a bit sad as nobody likes tubes in their noses! He cried; I cried; we all cried! We settled in to sit together on the couch for emotional support snuggles! While sitting, tiny baby Manuelito came for a visit when someone had to set him down for a moment. Just for fun, I placed tiny Manuel in David's arms and helped David hug him. It was such a beautiful moment! Until David threw up!

Just saying, I think it was revenge vomit for putting a tube in him!

I knew he was going hurl the moment he coughed, so got the baby clear. Manuel held safely in the air like Simba presented before the kingdom, David coated the two of us in the phlegm that marked his latest illness. I comically shouted for help, keeping Manuel in the air until he was rescued from the volcanic splash zone, and tilted David's head so he wouldn't aspirate, but there was no saving our cloths! By the time I gave up on staying clean, David's furry had claimed his shirt and pants, my own shirt and pants, half the couch, and the giant bibs we foolishly thought would save us. Now we were sitting, sticky and coated with goop, and frankly no idea how to begin to clean this up!

Some messes are that catastrophic that there is no right move!

I know this sounds (and it was) disgusting, but there is something about the crazy messiness of it that brought back a sense of normalcy.

Kids still get sick. Cloths still get dirty. It seems like so much- this mess is covering everything so where do I even start to clean it up? Every shift of weight will allow more junk to get into more places. There is no use trying to contain it, so just make one first move. I'm talking about vomit, but I'm also talking about grief.

I thank God for messes that remind me of this-- things do not have to be ok right now to be ok someday.

God is STILL good. He knows his plan. That might be all I've got in this moment, but it's enough. I am not in this on my own. So in this mess, I can just start with one thing- get to the changing room. And maybe while trying to stand up this slime junk gets even messier in the process.

Just move. Sometimes a trail drops to the floor behind, but eventually that too will be wiped away.

Keep moving. Then it's pulling away the dirty clothing, and cleaning off every bit of little boy underneath. Soon it's new clothing, dry and untouched by the violence that just went down. Eventually, this mess is cleaned up. The next mess is coming, but one step at a time. That one will be faced too.

Things don't always have to be ok to be ok.

God is still good. And with time this mess will pass too.