Before-bed read

When her daughter was in the hospital, Rebecca Radicchi struggled with fear, uncertainty and guilt. But to her surprise, one peaceful, sunny bike ride was all she needed to replenish her spirit

With my head against the glass of our fifth-story hospital window, my gaze lingered on the row of red rental bikes across the street at our Ronald McDonald House. Once again we were sequestered post-operatively with our daughter at a children’s hospital a thousand miles from home. And by day eight of our stay, my bikeriding daydreams were quite vivid.

As the parents of a child with complex medical needs, this life wasn’t new to us. Our little patient had endured a complex, eight-hour, multi-surgeon operation. We’d been working through recovery with a pain pump, follow-up therapies, and an endless flow of medical professionals through our tiny fifth-floor room. The hardest challenge? She was under NPO (nil per os) orders: nothing by mouth—no food and no drinks. It had not been easy for her or me, her caretaker.

Then came a Sunday afternoon when the doctors had completed their rounds, our girl was finally comfortable and happy, and my mom was with us. It was a calm day of rest. So, as we clicked on Frozen for our eleventh viewing, I looked longingly again at those rental bikes shining in the summer sun. I’d left our daughter’s bedside many times for naps or laundry, but could I leave her for a joyride? As I wondered if it might finally be possible to slip away, my familiar doubts arose. What if the surgeon came back? What if a nurse needed me? What if my daughter cried? What if they forgot to give her pain meds? “Go,” urged my mom. “Go,” urged everything in me. So, I pushed aside those noisy doubts and my guilty-mom feelings. I walked through the hospital doors into the open air, bound for that row of bikes. As I swiped my credit card and the bike unlocked, something in me unlocked as well. For two freeing hours, I pumped the pedals fast, and then I meandered slowly. My hair blew, and my heart pumped. My soul responded with a flood of emotions from elation to buried, angry tears, then back to grateful joy. I even stopped to take a few photos of a f lower garden. When I returned and locked my bike back into its spot, my ride was over, but new breath filled my lungs. Back on the other side of the hospital glass, my girl smiled wide when I re-entered, happy to see me. And instead of clicking onto yet another movie, I decided it would be better to pull out our unused paints and turn on some music. Soul care was long overdue for her, too.

That joyride shifted my thinking. Yes, my priority is my family. Yes, life is hard, full, and even scary, but I’d gotten a good taste of the value of attending to the soul.

The reality is, I am a medical mom of four children. So, unfortunately, my “me time” has limited parameters. We’ve got long to-do lists and a full schedule. There are multiplication tables to memorize, dishes to scrub, book reports to complete, and Cub Scout meetings to attend.

But now I have a changed perspective and a tea towel in my kitchen that reminds me: “Do something each day that brings you joy.”

When I care for my soul and take a little me time, it might feel unproductive, but it’s also a gift to my whole family. A happy momma often results in a happy family. And, while I want my kids to know how to subtract and make a bed, I also want them to discover what makes them come alive. I want to help them increase their capacities to survive and thrive. If they see me take joyrides, maybe they will, too.

I wrote myself a permission slip to seize a little slice of joy that day in the pediatric hospital, and it has made all the difference. After that Sunday bike ride, Monday inevitably came. The

“I pushed aside the doubts and guiltymom feelings and walked through the hospital doors and into the open air”

new day brought my girl discomfort and agitation. For hours, I tried to no avail to do everything I could think of, from holding her to distracting her with Snapchat filters.

Then I remembered my joyride.

So, I dimmed the lights, pulled a chair and tray table close to her bed, and dumped out a 100-piece puzzle. I hummed as I sorted through the pieces. She was annoyed at first, but I kept humming and sorting. Then slowly, as I settled, so did she. I moved the tray closer, and her little hands went to work, helping me find all the blue-sky pieces.

As it turns out, when I took the time to attend to my soul, it helped my daughter settle hers as well.

—Rebecca Radicchi