Thursday in Verona - more of the same!

I am now very adept at predicting what will happen in the Italian medical system.  I told my dad last night, "I bet we go tomorrow, and they give her a shot because nobody has decided to stop the shots, and then they don't change her bandages, and they tell us to come back tomorrow for 'maybe shots' and 'maybe a bandage change.'"  Too bad it wasn't Las Vegas, because I would have come out a winner.  That is exactly what happened today.

Anna is so completely done and over with the shots business.  I understand the necessity, but since we are now at nearly three weeks of antibiotic shots, and her little derriere is black and blue with needle pricks, I, too, am ready for the shots to be finiti.  Every day I ask the nurse, "finiti?  No more shots?"  I say this in my best Italian voice, because, as we all know, if you speak English with an Italian accent, it makes it translate better into Italian.  Every day they look at me sadly and shake their heads.  It's the same in any country I have been in:  No, Nyet, Bu, No.  No, we are not finiti.  Not now.  Maybe not ever.  I'm beginning to think Nurse Rita may get on the plane and come home with us to give Anna a shot every day for the rest of her life.  On the bright side, all the nurses can now sign "sorry," which goes a long way with Anna.  As long as you are sorry about it, she perks up.  After her shots, she walks back to the room and signs to Papa, "I got a shot; I cried. Papa sorry."  To which Papa always tells her he is sorry. 


Today's weather was drizzly off and on and very cold, but the sun did come out this afternoon, just long enough to go walking a bit.

I made Papa stay home because his knee is very sore.  I need him 100% for the trip home.  There are bags to haul, and I can't master the 5 year old plus all the heavy bags.  Always before, Anna could not hear my voice if she wanders ahead or lingers behind, and I call after her.  I wonder if she will be able to hear my voice on the way home?  I know she might not know what it means, but will she be able to hear it?  Will she be able to hear the jet engine, and the airplane food carts, and the overhead announcements?  The doctors say yes.

When I really stop and think about it, it quiets my soul -- in two weeks' time, Anna will hear sounds.  I can't even put into words what I feel about that.  Really, I just want to fall on my face and weep.  I weep for Anna, for what is lost and what is to come.  I weep with the utmost gratitude to the Lord, and to the doctors and medical staff, and to all of you, who have prayed for Anna, written encouraging messages to my family, and given of your time and your finances to make this possible for her.  What words could possibly convey the depth of my indebtedness and povery before our Father and before all of you? 

In the end, we really are nothing...just vapors.  We are here only for this brief moment.  In the end, when we journey onward, we come to Him empty-handed -- not with diplomas and accomplishments and bank accounts and church work and charitable donations.  We can only bring to Him the love that we have lavished on Him and on people.  Yet, even as vapors, He tells us that each of us was appointed to a certain time and epoch, to a particular boundary and habitat, so that we will seek Him.  We each have a special purpose in the time and place to which we have been sent.  Oh, that we can all find our purpose and live out our days loving one another in word and in deed!


Blessings from Italy,
Amy

PS - Photos tomorrow, if I can get an internet connection that will hold.