Lessons Through the Frames
The lenses are scratched, and every part of the frames shows signs of wear. But they bring me comfort, especially now.
I slept in this old pair of glasses every night for the first eight weeks of Luke’s hospitalization. I wanted to be ready — instantly — to help him however I could. Without them, the world is just a blur of shapes and colors. But I needed clarity. I needed to see the now-familiar monitor across the room — the numbers tracking his heart rate, oxygen levels, and breath count. I needed to know what was happening the moment anything changed.
Between the whoosh of the ventilator, the shrill alarms that blared when his stats spiked, and the steady beeping of machines lining both his room and the trauma ICU floor, hypervigilance wasn’t just a tendency — it was a survival instinct. There was little I could do to meet his critical medical needs, but my presence and constant advocacy gave me something to hold onto.
Even now, when I see those glasses resting on my nightstand, I’m transported back. Back to the bleary, endless days of watching and waiting. Back to the ache of helplessness. Back to the quiet resolve of showing up anyway.
A Body On Alert
Even in sleep — whether I was sitting upright in the one chair in Luke’s TICU room or stealing a few hours in a recliner down the hall — my body stayed on high alert. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fully rest. It was as if my nervous system knew my child was in grave danger and refused to let me forget it.
And the truth is, Luke was in grave danger. His pneumonia was worsening despite the strongest antibiotics. He was neurostorming — the body’s exaggerated stress response after a severe brain injury — which meant dangerously high blood pressure, rapid heart and respiratory rates, and persistent fevers. At the same time, his body was trying to heal multiple facial fractures and upper-body wounds, leading to severe fluid retention and swelling.
Every second felt urgent. Because it was. Every flicker of a number, every sound of a beep carried meaning. And as Luke’s primary support person, it became my job to absorb it all — to interpret the chaos and speak up for what he needed.
There were nights I could only sleep for 45-minute stretches before waking with a jolt, pulled by an invisible tether back to his room. I had to see him with my own eyes. I had to know he was still breathing. There were days when I didn’t leave his side for hours — skipping meals, ignoring my own basic needs — because the thought of him being alone was unbearable.
The Impossible Made Possible
I remember thinking to myself, "I should feel tired. This should be hard." But it wasn’t. Maybe that was a mother’s instinct. Maybe it was the grace of God. But now, with over nine months of distance, I look back and see just how impossible it all really was.
I don’t remember feeling tired. I don’t remember feeling hungry. It’s as if some primal instinct flipped a switch, turning off my awareness of my own needs so I could focus entirely on his.
Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I did it.
Memory in the Muscles
That same pair of glasses is still the first I reach for when I’m at home. There’s a comfort in them that’s hard to explain — a kind of muscle memory that lives deeper than thought. It’s like my body knows they’ve seen much more chaotic, desperate days… and is slowly learning it’s safe to rest now.
I see them and remember the sores that formed behind my ears from the constant rubbing. The couple of times I jolted awake in a panic because they’d fallen off and I couldn’t read Luke’s respiratory rate on the monitor. I remember holding them tightly in my hand during moments when I felt helpless, as if clutching them gave me some small measure of control.
Even now, months later, when I slip them on, something in me braces. My breath catches for a beat. My eyes scan the room — not for a monitor, but out of habit. My nervous system still hasn’t fully caught up to the safety of the present.
I’m still learning that our bodies remember in ways we don’t always expect — even a pair of glasses can carry the weight of what we’ve been through. Those glasses shouldn’t matter so much, but they do. Because they were with me in the thick of it. Because they’re part of the story my body still tells, even as my spirit works to soften.
What the Glasses Helped Me See
What I saw most clearly during those long nights wasn’t just a heart rate or oxygen level — it was love. The kind that stays. That watches. That holds on.
I couldn’t see it then, not really. But that’s what I was doing. Following my most basic instinct as a mother — fighting to keep my son alive and making sure he knew he wasn’t alone, that help was always near.
Through those lenses, I saw the fragility of life up close in a way I never had before. I watched Luke’s medical team work tirelessly to meet his needs — not just with expertise, but with compassion and hope. I watched my 17-year-old baby — all 6’2” of him — fight with everything in him to stay alive. I watched what happens when people show up carrying their own fear, sorrow, hope, joy, and prayers, willing to help you shoulder what’s too heavy to bear alone.
These experiences changed me. In some ways, gradually. In others, all at once.
Rooms opened in my spiritual being I didn’t even know existed. I learned how to focus on what was directly in front of me and trust the experts to tell me what I needed to know when the time was right. I learned how to ride the emotional rollercoaster of brain injury recovery — to understand that what feels like a setback is often just the body doing the hard work of healing and rewiring.
And I learned, perhaps most of all, that God really does work in the details. From nurses who welcomed our participation in Luke’s care, to security guards and cafeteria workers who wore “Praying for Luke” buttons and stopped to pray with us in the halls or celebrate when good news came.
The Night I Took Them Off
It’s been 278 days since my first night in the TICU, and my body and mind are still learning what it means to rest — what it means not to live in survival mode, always waiting for the bottom to drop out.
As Luke has fought the greatest fight of his life to make a miraculous recovery, I’ve been on my own side quest of healing. In this season, I’m learning to let myself feel it all — worry, hope, fear, joy, anger, grief, sorrow, loss, excitement. The depth of my emotional landscape seems to have at least doubled.
I’m learning to pause and breathe. To rest. To say no when I need to, so I can say yes to myself. To speak up for my own needs. Just like I fought for Luke’s healing, I’m learning to do the same for mine.
The first night I slept without my glasses was Wednesday, October 2nd. By then, he had stabilized enough that his vitals no longer required constant monitoring — there were no numbers glowing on a screen to pull me from sleep.
It felt surreal to lie on my side and finally rest — not in alertness, but in blurred peace — gazing at my beautiful boy. That night, I remember sleeping more soundly than I had in weeks.
It was the first real signal that Luke was healing. That we were healing. That our lives were slowly beginning to return to a new kind of normal — one I couldn’t have imagined just a few weeks before.
A Gentle Invitation to Rest
Softening is slow work. But it’s sacred work. As we gently remind ourselves it’s okay to take off the glasses — to loosen our grip on what we’re trying so hard to hold together — we’re also reminding ourselves that we are worthy of rest.
If you’re in your own season of sleeping in glasses, my prayer is that you’ll find strength for the moment and peace for your soul. That as you care for your loved one, you’ll know you are being thought of, seen, and held, too.
And when the time is right, I hope you’ll remember this: The same love that kept you watchful can also be the love that helps you let go.
I know it is for me.
Keep shining,
