10 years ago, I was fretfully trying to sleep at this time.
I’d just given birth to a beautiful baby boy.
I didn’t realize that his skin had an eerie blue tint.
I didn’t realize that his toes and fingers seemed perpetually cold.
I only realized that the day had finally come, and I had finally given birth. I was exhausted, the last 3 days had been demanding of my body. The constant contractions, the aches and lack of sleep had finally did me in. I should be sleeping. I should be so drained that sleep should of been so welcomed.
Instead I was lying awake and dozing off and on, never fully sinking into a blissful sleep.
The doctor had come in 2 hours earlier and explained there was something wrong with my sons heart.
He’d come and solemnly told me they had to run some tests.
He wouldn’t explain further. I wanted to slap him. I wanted answers, and he seemed to have none.
He looked so grief stricken that I panicked. My whole being went from needing sleep, to being wide awake.
I was told that they would be sending an ambulance to come retrieve my son, that he’d be sent to Children’s Hospital in Columbus, Ohio.
I wouldn’t be going with him.
At 6am the next morning they wheeled him into my room in a box. It was meant to transport him, but it looked like a cage for a science experiment. It looked ominous and foreboding.
His little form was covered in wires, and I could only reach my hand into a small opening in the side and hold his hand for a moment before they whisked him away from me. I tossed and turned some more in my hospital cot.
I remember all those emotions as if it was yesterday, but it’s been 10 years.
The next day I had packed my hospital room up and prepared for discharge. The doctor came in and informed me that he’d already started the paperwork. My son was in Columbus, I was not. I wanted to go. Now. I needed to be with him. I was worried. I was scared. I didn’t know what to expect, I only had that doctors face in my mind and the grief emanating from him.
A quick trip to my apartment. A few clothes. The hat that had been on my sons head hours before. I clung to that hat the whole way to Columbus, my mother driving as we followed my grandparents. My own thoughts drowning me, and making it unable to think.
When we got there we were shown the way to the Nicu and there was my son, wearing nothing but a diaper and tubes. Tubes, wires, more tubes. 13 of them to be exact. Every one with it’s own particular purpose. A nurse cautioning me to not pick him up. All I wanted to do was hold him. I’d only been able to hold him for a very few precious moments.
A doctor coming in and calmly telling me he had Tetralogy of Fallot. He explained treatments. He didn’t have grief emanating from his body. He didn’t have the worrisome look on his face as if he was telling me my son would not make it. It had a name. It had a cure. It meant surgery but my son was going to be alright.
It’s been a long road. He had a surgery at 4 months and 11 months. But my son is 10.
He is no longer bluish. He smiles. He laughs. He reads. He jokes with you and will tell you stories all day long, and it’s been 10 years.
Where has the time gone?
Happy Birthday Jon. ❤