When one kid is in the hospital you disappear into a bubble.

The world outside of that room fades away and you are nothing but medicines and doctors and nurses and monitors.

The last time we were in the hospital we didn’t know Denver had CF.  We were there for just three days and everyone was always visiting Kennedy.

This time it was Denver in the hospital and Kennedy couldn’t visit (they don’t even like CF kids living together but…well, siblings and all that).  We couldn’t all be up there, and we had to switch things around and find someone to watch the girls and – chaos reined until my in-laws were good enough to take them over the weekend.

We were able to focus on the one child. The sick one. The tests and orders and plans for what would happen with him.

In the bubble things are protected – but you don’t feel whole.

Coming home is chaos. Suddenly girls are screaming and running and Denver is teasing them and it’s loud and crazy and gives me such a headache.

The bubble bursts into wild days of life bursting at the seams and homework and chores and stories of all kinds.

The bubble is safe, protected, sheltered.

Life on the outside might be dangerous, but suddenly you have peace you didn’t before.

You are home.

You are whole.