A Surreal Journey: 100 Hospital Trips and Counting

Amid her son’s ongoing health needs, Carmen Lappe spent Good Friday reflecting on the cross her family has been asked to bear and how they find rest in the Lord in the midst of despair. 

On Good Friday, our family made hospital trip #100. 

Our son’s health journey began just over three years ago. There have been many ups and downs, joys and sorrows, triumphs and frustrations.

Good Friday, however, was surreal:

• 100 trips.

• 92 port accesses.

• Approximately 15,000 miles driven.

• 15 MRIs.

• 15 ophthalmology exams.

• 76 infusions.

And I'm tired. Too often, I'm all prayed out.

Trying To Make Sense of it All

This cross we were given: I remain clueless as to its purpose. I believe it has one, but what that is remains lost on me. We continue the slow walk up our own personal Calvary with no visible end in sight. I consider the Stations of the Cross; how tradition tells us our Lord fell three times. But when I feel the weight of our cross, I wonder how He only fell three times.

When I place myself in this scene during my time of prayer, sometimes I am Jesus, crushed under the immense weight of our cross. Other times I am Mary, my heart leaden as I watch my son endure it all. What to do with all this grief, all this sorrow?

Psalm 22 has been a constant prayer (or cry) through this season: desperate for deliverance yet grounded in sustaining hope:

My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?
Why so far from my call for help,
from my cries of anguish?
My God, I call by day, but you do not answer;
by night, but I have no relief.

Yet you are enthroned as the Holy One;
you are the glory of Israel.
In you our fathers trusted;
they trusted and you rescued them.
To you they cried out and they escaped;
in you they trusted and were not disappointed. (Psalm 22:2-6)

Perhaps treatment will end eventually, but I am afraid to hope because we were hurt by that once already. Like many things with Damien, I keep hoping they will improve or become easier, but they just never do.

Similarly, the path forward for his vision offers little hope. We know he'll never achieve 20/20 vision or anything close to it. What he sees now is all he's ever known and likely all he ever will. For a boy who loves tractors, semis, fire trucks, motorcycles, and any construction vehicle with wheels, the thought of him never being able to drive is shattering. But likely, he’ll never be able to.

Finding Rest

I don't know what the future holds, but I’m trying to rest in the One who does. Unsure of all that lies ahead, I am sure He will continue to hold my family and me.

When I don't understand, I am held.

When I'm afraid to hope, I'm held.

In my exhaustion, I'm held.

In my anxiety, I'm held.

In my grief for what the past three years have been, I'm held.

When I’m all prayed out, the act of letting myself be held is my prayer. Lord, you take care of it.

The Maker of my human heart sees the grief and hope contained there: both things true at once. Through my despair and weariness I still find Him, patiently waiting to comfort me. So I cast myself into His arms yet again, trusting in the goodness that has held me my whole life.

Can You Let Yourself Be Held?

Maybe your season of life looks similar. If so, can you let yourself just be held? Can you cast yourself into the arms of the One who holds it all together?

Share your thoughts with the Catholic Mom community! You'll find the comment box below the author's bio and list of recommended articles.

Copyright 2026 Carmen Lappe
Images: (top) copyright 2026 Carmen Lappe, all rights reserved; (others) Canva