Aspiration hasn’t been a buzzword in my family until my younger son, Amos, diagnosed with Down Syndrome, started contracting multiple lung infections that developed into bronchitis and pneumonia.
The cause? Aspiration.
That was how the term found its way into our daily conversations. It describes the situation when fluids enter the trachea (aka windpipe) instead of the esophagus (aka the conduit that brings foods into your stomach when you swallow). In short, we were feeding milk into Amos’ lungs instead of his stomach.
It was an unsettling notion when we first heard of it. And it didn’t help that Amos aspirates silently, which means he doesn’t gag or cough on reflex like most of us do when fluids get into our windpipes. Having low muscle tone means that not only the muscles in his mouth and throat fail to regulate the flow of fluids, they are also incapable of ejecting them.
This recent discovery was only one of the many medical glitches that came before. Amos already had an ear surgery to rectify his hearing loss and an open-heart surgery to patch up a septal defect. And just recently, we found that he would require mechanical intervention to keep his airways open during sleep.
For the caregivers, being exhausted is an understatement. It’s just a matter of time before we have to grapple with the possibility that Amos might have to depend on constant care giving for the rest of his life. We try to put the thought out of our minds so that we could focus on giving him the best intervention and therapies possible.
We can’t help but wish that his mental development would accelerate after a few years, that he would outgrow this and that. We can’t help but cling to the hope that he wouldn’t be too far behind, that he would reach his milestones and that he could go mainstream, fit in, get a job.
Over the past two years we’ve come to realize that the term Aspiration took on an ironic twist when it began to teach us an invaluable lesson found in Psalm 119:105.
Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.
It describes a scene in antiquity where people tread in the dark by means of candlelight. This feeble illumination doesn’t go very far. It throws a spot on the ground and reveals just enough for anyone to take the next step, and the next and so on. It doesn’t tell you what’s in store and what comes your way. But in trusting the light you know you are making the journey to a purpose and destination.
And By faith you know you will get there.
It’s about aspiring to the right stuff or not at all. It’s about aspiring to attain the strength and wisdom for the task at hand; to overcome the obstacle that stands in your way so that you can take the next little step.
It means living each day solely to Godly grace and taking on tribulations with the silent strength and humility of Christ. Always hoping, always praying to the next step and nothing more, because you know that Christ is in full control.
Amos took his first step at about twenty-eight months; even then it was an assisted step. Because of his low muscle tone Amos still drenches his clothes with his drool. He now tube-feeds because he can’t swallow fluids correctly.
You can’t hurry such things; you can’t make the aspiration go away by shoving fluids down Amos’ throat expecting that he would get the hang of it. For Amos everything simply progresses in slow, tiny, careful steps. It is arduous, it is repetitive, it’s a crawl.
But he’ll get there.
"Your sandals shall be iron and bronze; As your days, so shall your strength be."
Deut 33:25