A little over a month ago Tate awoke us from our sleep in the middle of the night.

“My chest hurts,” he said, while holding his chest.

Half asleep and confused about chest pain in my nine-year-old son, I asked him to explain the pain. He replied, “It’s like a stabbing pain in my chest.”

My first thoughts were that he had pulled a muscle. After trying to get him to lie down with us, I quickly realized that this could be more serious than a pulled muscle. 

A trip to our local ER resulted in him being transferred to our county’s children’s hospital.

When I finally returned home after many hours at the hospital and very little sleep, I started to cry. As I cried, I watched my mind shoot second and third arrows. Those arrows refer to the story I was telling myself about the first arrow (what actually transpired)—Tate had unexpectedly been admitted to the hospital with a heart issue. With the second and third arrows my mind was shooting into the future with a million worst case scenarios— futures filled with sadness for him and for us as a family.  The arrows were not representative of what was happening in this moment, but rather they were projections to a future I knew nothing about. 

Some of the suffering of the second arrow was a result of my thinking, “This is not supposed to be happening.” Though that thought wanted to be seen, I could see its ridiculous nature. There is no one thing that is supposed to or not supposed to happen. Events happen. Tragedies occur. Adversities arise. This life event was not happening to me. It was simply happening— a dance of the universe I will never fully understand.

To think something is “not supposed to happen” is to presume to know all the causes and conditions present in a moment in the universe and to then surmise that what followed was not a natural result of those conditions. Impossible.

Before Coral was born, there was a part of me that believed (to some extent) that I could control life if I did everything “right.” I could somehow protect against the worst events and effort my way to the “perfect” life— free from intense suffering and major challenges.

I now recognize that joy and suffering in life are two sides of the same coin. No one knows what is going to happen next. There is no tally sheet to record medical emergencies, so a clear quota can be met. Rare diseases, like Dup15q and infantile spasms, do occur.  Some kids’ bodies will react to viruses in the way Tate’s did—attacking his heart, mistakenly thinking it is the virus. Some people get cancer, like Tom did (twice). 

Uncertainty is a part of life. The choice I have is to decide how to relate to the uncertainty and the events I might initially feel are “not supposed to happen.” I suffer more by projecting second and third arrows about the experience and resisting it at every turn. 

Alternatively, I can choose to suffer less. I can be in the moment, as hard as it may feel, without identifying myself with the moment. I can see the arising emotions (anger, sadness, anxiety, etc) without identifying them as who I am or the type of person I am. I can see that everything that arises does pass away. I can return to my breath as many times as I need to.

I can also be mindful of the tremendous number of blessings and the sheer amount of luck which have punctuated my life thus far. I can have immense gratitude for this life.

Tate came home after three days in the hospital. He remains on some activity restrictions. The path ahead is a bit uncertain, but Tate is generally back to being himself (minus soccer teams, trampoline parks and other very strenuous activities).

Shortly after he returned home, Tom and I traveled to Reno for a dear friend’s memorial.  The morning after we got back I went into Coral’s room to get her up. On her AAC I said, “Good morning, Coral. How are you?”

She looked at me and replied, “How are you?” She then said, “Mama, Mama, Mama,” all while she stared deeply into my eyes. Though she’s looked at me countless times before, this time it was as if she was truly seeing me for the first time.

In that moment it was as if I was seeing her for the first time, too—her love, her soul and her whole person.

The moment was a juxtaposition to the memory I have of sobbing on the bed after receiving her diagnosis, another life event that was “not supposed to happen.” 

It is in these very different moments that I have the opportunity to see how everything is truly connected. The latter moment of pure joy and connection would never be if I had not passed through the difficult moment of receiving her diagnosis.

Life is the convergence of both the moments I meet with open-arm acceptance and those I encounter with more resistance. It is the journey of walking through each one while trying to remember: Let it be.