Rooms and Reflections : "Grim Grandeur"

As part of my tutoring responsibilities with Roman's homeschool class, I am trying to track with his subjects and do some of the assignments myself.

One course on the agenda this school year is poetry and creative writing.

The assignment to look around for and write about some moody, dismal scene, titling it, "Grim Grandeur," piqued my interest. I had the perfect place.

Packing up my over-night bag to stay with Roman in the hospital, I threw in my journal and pen, and hoped for some down-time to write.

We are safely home now from our week spent at Children's in Milwaukee, where Roman underwent spinal surgery for scoliosis on September 2nd. The experience kept my mind so focused on him, that I barely had the quiet mental space necessary to come up with anything to write. Not to mention, that they keep hospitals so clean and bright that dismal and grim really only describes the emotional side of things, not the place itself.

Have you heard of this new trend that people are posting about called Rare Aesthetic?

As someone who tends to attach strong emotions to nostalgic things, it's fascinating to me to learn this has a name!

Have you ever been struck by the sight of your school empty and dark at night? Or glanced around your apartment one final time on move-out day? Or opened your eyes in an airplane to catch the first glimmer of sunrise through the cabin windows after a long, red-eye flight? ... These memories, with their unusual "frozen in time" atmosphere, have a way of engraving themselves on our hearts forever.

So, I'm not sure what to call this... "Grim Grandeur," or my own "Rare Aesthetic." Nonetheless, I did manage to jot down a few observations in an attempt to, "totally surrender to whatever atmosphere was offering itself at the moment," as the writing assignment encouraged.

Tuesday, September 2, 2025 entry:

We arrived in sheer darkness, hungry and puffy-eyed from an early rise and long drive. The pre-op room was small, warm, and dimly-lit. A motherly nurse spoke gently with us while she placed the IV in Roman's hand. All is well. We are strangely at peace.

I step out of the room for a moment to be greeted by an unavoidable orange ball in the sky. Through the windows at the end of an empty, quiet hall was the grey outline of building tops and a vivid sunrise. I step back into the room to sit... and to wait... and to listen to frightful things from doctors in an airy and composed way. (They must be trained on how to have a calming effect on people when offering potentially upsetting words.)

Three IV's total will be placed in Roman, I learn. The main IV, a back up IV, and an artery IV to monitor his heart. Labs are drawn to verify his blood type in case a blood transfusion is needed. (I'm sorry... what?!) A tube will be thread down his throat, so expect a weak voice and sore throat upon awaking, as well as blurred vision, and a swollen and probably bruised appearance from being smushed on his stomach for so long. I sit back in an attempt to process.... but with that, Roman is wheeled away in one direction, (I fumble to scoop up our belongings) and we are whisked off in the other direction to endure this six-hour procedure in their waiting room.

I try to settle into a spot by a window to rest and read. After taking in the view, and marveling at how we've come this far, (scoliosis that ends in surgery is often a years-long journey involving bracing, x-rays, second options and tears) I turn to 2 Chronicles 32 and read...

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or discouraged. vs.7

...but with us is the Lord our God to help us and to fight our battles. vs.8

Suddenly an irresistible urge to pray washed over me. I stopped reading, closed my eyes and asked God to send extra angels to surround Roman on every side. I asked God to place His hand on the surgeon. I asked for everything to go smoothly. And when I ran out of words to pray, I thought of the verse that promises, "groans that words cannot express," and asked the Holy Spirit to intercede.

Just then I received a text. Startled out of my thoughts, I lift my phone up to read... "Update - Prep work is done and the procedure has begun." I realize I had been praying at the moment the incision was being made.

My senses awaken during this interlude like this morning's sunrise illuminating our day. Now that the busyness of the morning is over and I am alone, I can really see, hear, and feel in this waiting room. It is peaceful here. The room is spacious and clean, with blue chairs and bright, cream walls. A little counter with complementary water, coffee, and tea sits reassuringly off to the side. Instrumental music plays over the speakers. I notice the same few parents who checked in at 6:00am alongside us, and wonder what their story is. Some are resting, some are reading. One mom is given a warm blanket by a smiling nurse. But we are all sharing in this same bizarre experience of handing our most valued treasure - our child!- over to strangers for a life-altering operation.

I am thankful for the young couple seated behind me. They seem to understand the unspoken etiquette of speaking softly and of benign topics at a time like this. Our nervous systems can't cope with anything more stimulating.

I resume my people-watching out the window. It's going to be a sunny, beautiful, and warm September day. I continue to receive update texts from the nurse that Roman is doing well under anesthesia and everything is going smoothly.

By the time we make it to recovery, and breathe a sigh of relief at the Doctor's report that it all went perfectly, Roman is comfortably resting. Whew! What a whirlwind today has been! My body relaxes and I realize I'm hungry. I didn't feel it till now. How could a mother eat when her child's back is torn open, anyway? Micah has headed for home, and it's just me and a very tired, loopy Roman, alone together. We are told to expect to be here for 3-5 days.

I like our room. It's private and painted a sunny yellow.

Once settled, I decide to navigate my way through a series of elevator rides and long hallways, following signs as I go, to find the cafeteria. It is bustling with activity and humming with people as I take my dinner selection to the check-out. What is a reasonable first meal to consume after an emotional day? Something comforting and bland, you suggest? Like grilled cheese and chocolate milk, perhaps? Or soup and crackers with herbal tea? Makes sense. I should have listened to you. What do I choose? A spicy hummus and avocado wrap, filled with crunchy mystery veggies that I did not enjoy at all. That is so unlike anything I normally eat, I'm not sure why it seemed right in the moment. But I choked it down and it filled me up.

Back in the recovery room, that unavoidable orange ball is back in the sky. The sun is spilling that golden, evening light into our room, making sterile hospital equipment and plastic furniture look rich, warm and inviting. Grim grandeur. And I realize I have watched both the sunrise and sunset from this building on this day. One to mark the start of something scary and unknown. The other to whisper, See? You got through it. Everything will be okay.