My son removed the circular tube from his mouth, where he was inhaling the steroids to help him breathe and looked at me with twinkling ethereal eyes and flushed apple cheeks, he placed his tiny hand a top of mine. I was perched on an uncomfortable leather stool next to Logan’s hospital bed. The aroma of bleach and latex stung my nose.
I looked at the young child with curiosity. I wanted him to place the tube back in but he shook his head. My eyes were sore from crying, which I never did in front of him, I was his mother, shielding him from the cruelty of the world. I could not let him see the tarnish that bestowed my armor.
“Mommy, it’s the best day ever.”
Breathless, tears sprang from my eyes. This child, who since birth, had been poked, prodded, stuck, examined, observed, scoped, stretched, pinched, was reassuring me that he was alright and that everything would be alright.
This child, who was marked an “enigma” by the best of the best doctors, was comforting me. Allowing his innocent spirit to enrapture my broken one, to fill me with light, when right now, all I saw was darkness.
This child has a story tell…and here it is.