On helicopters, stuffed animals and other happy stuff

One December day when I was a SAHM, pregnant with a child that would be born two weeks later, and with a preschooler and a toddler, I put my six year old son on the school bus. My exact words that I remember today, seven years later were, "Don't think you're going to be an asshole during Christmas break." FYI, I do not swear at my children regularly, just in case you were wondering. I could not have realized how much I would regret those words six hours later.

My child was born with an Ateriovenous Malformation of the brain that had gone undetected all these years. On this day in December, three weeks before his seventh birthday, it ruptured. After arriving to pick him up from school after the school nurse thought he was coming down with influenza, he lost consciousness. I will never know what went through the minds of the office staff at school, but they stared. It could have been five minutes or five seconds, time stood still. A father carried him to the car for me and to the hospital we went.

Here's where things spun crazily out of control. Apparently if the ER staff leave you waiting for hours, it is a good thing. We were in a trauma room immediately. Yes TRAUMA. That is still impossible to believe. This is where he was worked on by what I believed to be too many people, tubed, lined and all the other things they do. This where I hit my knees, not in prayer but total loss of control of my limbs, this is where I told him how much I loved him a trillion times. This is where I was given no hope of a positive outcome.

He flew, on a helicopter to the Children's Hospital. He lived. He changed. He begged for death once, but never lost his resolve after that.

We took him home more terrified than parents of a newborn. I didn't sleep, I performed neuro checks around the clock. Every member of our families lives changed. I was petrified. Petrified that he would die, that one of the other children would die. I had been to the abyss and was pulled back, but not before I saw the reality that I could not live with. I became the mother that does nothing regrettable. I lived every mothering moment like tomorrow may never come. I did this for a long time. I realized I was creating a downward slide for my family and myself. One cannot keep this up sanely. I realized your children need to know you love them, unconditionally. They need to know you are strong enough for any situation. They need to know they matter, but happiness does not come from hinging on death every day.

I mourn for the him that was lost, I ache for his pain, but I am grateful every day that he is here and mine. I never forget that each day does not guarantee the next, but living on a hinge is no way to live.