An Appointment at Vanderbilt

This past Thursday Ryan had a doctor's appointment at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital. It was nothing serious. At his three-year wellness appointment his pediatrician noticed his hip and leg alignment was a bit uneven, and that he has flat feet. He wanted pediatric orthopedics to see if there was anything we needed to do to fix it, and the closest office was at Vanderbilt. For those unfamiliar with the hospital, it's top notch. Like St. Jude, it's a research hospital with many doctors known for their breakthrough procedures.

As we made our way through the building, I noticed how bright and friendly everything looked. If I didn't know better, I would have thought we were in a fun children's discovery museum. There were neat displays of toys, bright star-tiled floors and friendly staff at every turn. Everyone treated Ryan like he was a superstar. I was so touched by their kindness, knowing they treated every child that way whether he was there for a simple check-up or something far more serious.

Despite the friendly decor and cheerful staff, you could feel the tension and pressure of the hospital's purpose at every turn. The air was thick with it. The friendliness was almost unnerving because I knew the motive behind it. While you couldn't see them in the front lobbies, dozens of children were inside fighting for their lives, with devoted parents praying for a miracle. I said a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn't one of them.

As we sat in the waiting room of orthopedics, I looked around and saw several children in wheelchairs, some with limbs curved in ways they shouldn't be, others in casts or braces. Beside each one of them was a mother and/or father, looking tired and a bit lost. But I sat there watching my healthy, three-year-old little boy hopping from one giant-painted dinosaur footprint to the next with ease. So often I forget what a miracle it is that he's even alive, let alone has no side-effects from his scary birth. He could have easily been one of the children in the upper floors of that hospital, having yet another surgery as a result of his complicated birth, with me and Brenton anxiously pacing the halls, praying for yet another miracle. But he wasn't, and we weren't.

As it turns out, the very friendly and wonderful doctors informed us Ryan's knocked knees are nothing to worry about, and will correct themselves over time. They had him run up and down the hallway giving the staff high fives to check his alignment. And we also learned his flat feet are just genetically built that way, inherited from his daddy. There's nothing to do because Ryan's feet have beautiful arches, they just disappear when he stands. If he has pain we can give him extra arch support in his shoes, but that's it. No big deal. He skipped out of the room all smiles, proudly showing off the Mickey Mouse sticker he put on his shirt upside down in order to face him as he looked at it.

We enjoyed the rest of the day as a family in Nashville, and as I watched Ryan run, laugh and play while I pushed Jackson in the stroller, my heart was so full of gratitude for my two healthy, beautiful children. Later, I sat in the car feeding Jackson and said a prayer for those parents who didn't get to leave the hospital that day to take their children to the park. I thanked the Lord for my family and for the precious gift of their health. It made me hold them a little tighter that night before bedtime kisses. I sure love my family: flat feet, knock knees and all.