Sometimes June 5th passes me by with absolutely no notice. This year, it was the first thing I thought when I woke up. It has been 9 years since I handed my baby boy over to the nurse in the hospital. It was a hot summer morning in Phoenix and the hallway was bright. I remember he watched me as the nurse took him into the operating room and all I could do was ask Jesus to be with him and tell him it would be okay and help him not be scared.
I remember friends and family waiting with us. I remember how tense it was whenever we would get a call with an update. I remember with vivid clarity the nurse who came out to tell us that the surgery was over and they were sewing him up. She was petite with short brown hair and very compassionate eyes. This is all remarkable because I don’t remember much from that year. I can barely remember yesterday. But, the thing I remember most is an absolute confidence that my baby was going to be okay. I knew it.
It was touch and go for a few days, but within a week, he was out of the hospital and we were ready to move on with our life.
Today, the scar is pretty faded and if you didn’t know about his rough start, you probably wouldn’t. He’s vibrant and full of energy – just as an almost 10 year old should be.
Our Little Braveheart 