When the boys were young, I read to them often. One favorite was, Love You Forever. It's about a boy and his mom. The boy is mischievous and gets into things. He grows from a baby, to a busy toddler, to a teenager who plays loud music and swears! The teenager grows into a man, who moves across town. Every night from birth the mom rocks the boy and sings, "I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." One day, the mother is too old and weak to sing the song. The grown up son then holds her, rocks her gently back and forth and sings, "I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my mommy you'll be." Over the years I read it hundreds of times.
Five months and 7 days ago I sat and waited. And prayed. And waited. Offspring #2 had brain surgery that day. Today I'm in the same hospital as he gets his first follow-up MRI. Like the last time we were here, I know that I can't know exactly how my son is feeling. I know how I feel. I can imagine how he feels. But reality is, I have no reference point to know exactly how he feels. He is pensive, always dreading the MRI. It's loud and suffocating, he says. Soon enough, they call his name and I watch as my 6'1" 'baby' goes in for now his 5th MRI. I wait and pray. And wait some more.
I look around and see reminders that stir memories of the single most scary, prayer filled, blessed day in my entire life.
My son was in surgery for hours that afternoon. Most of that time I paced and prayed. I vividly remember seeing the surgeon walking toward me in the waiting room, still in his scrubs. As we met, I'll never forget his first words, "He did great!" I realized then that I'd been holding my breath, as a sigh of relief escaped. My son was in the recovery room and I needed to see him. Right now. He had needles and tubes attached to him, machines were rhythmically beeping, and he had blood in his hair. I reached down to kiss him and heard him say something inside his oxygen mask. I moved the mask so that I could understand him and he repeated, "I cheated death." Yes baby, you did.
Later that night he was moved to ICU. It was a rough night and his brother and I felt helpless. There was hand sanitizer outside of the ICU room, and I stopped every person who entered and reminded them to use it. Becoming the 'sanitizer monitor' somehow made me feel like I had some control in my son's healing process. I sit today and see that same bottle by the door to the MRI room. I smile remembering how I felt about it then. I wish the hand sanitizer gave me that same sense of control as I sit waiting today.
This child of mine is a grown man. He is a student, and an employee. He has a roommate, and a girlfriend, and a beard. He needs me less than I need him these days. I crave the time when he crawled up into my lap and I could read out loud:
"I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."
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