Tears and Laughter...

Through misted eyes I gazed at my little son as if for the first time - and perhaps for the last time. He lay sedated, fighting for his life, with two holes in his heart and pneumonia. Doctors questioned whether my two-month-old baby with Down's syndrome would live.
I wanted to remember what it felt like to be his mother. I wanted to savor my inability to distinguish where my flesh ended and his began. As I softly pressed my cheek against his, our connection calmed my fears. I wanted to remember the wisp of curls that twirled behind his ears, and the feeling of life fulfilled when his almond-shaped eyes drifted to look into mine. Mostly, I wanted to remember the inexplicable warmth that filled my heart when I held him.
I had dreamed of days when we might build sand castles at the beach together; when Eric would swing so high in the park that he'd feel like he was flying; when he would play catch with his daddy and cuddle with me. I begged the doctors to keep him alive. I pleaded with the nurses to feed him more. And I prayed to a God that I didn't know well to let me keep my baby.
After one special conversation with my husband, Bob, I came to realize that Eric's soul would choose whether to stay with us or let his body go. We stood on either side of his cold metal hospital crib and told him we would stay with him, love him and nurture him if he chose to stay with us. My mind trusted whatever his soul chose, but my heart ached with the hope that he would choose to stay.
Meanwhile, desperate to remember what it was like to hold my baby when it might last only these two precious months - to remember every moment - I decided to write it all down so I could never forget anything. From that moment of resolve, words flooded my thoughts. I formulated chapters in my mind between conversations; phrases appeared as I slipped off to sleep; and whole pages might appear to me upon waking, while driving or at Eric's bedside.
During his second week on life support, I strode into the hospital, past the reception desk to the bank of elevators, all the while transmuting emotions into words, mixing hopes and prayers. I stood before the elevator doors and stared up at numbers blinking all too slowly - 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . - until the soft bell rang and the doors parted to reveal smiling grandparents, nurses and orderlies from the pediatric ward. They passed within a few feet of me, but we were worlds apart. I entered and leaned against the cold wall, returning to my sanctuary of words as the elevator rose, and then I walked slowly down the long hallway to the children's ward.
Before Bob arrived, I whispered to my baby about plans for our book; it would be our secret. Then I remembered that I don't keep secrets, especially when opening up is essential, so I told my husband and some close friends as we gathered near Eric. I began writing that very evening at my kitchen table, occasionally turning to gaze upon the empty cradle in the living room, a reminder of my baby still in the hospital. It felt like a part of me had been pulled away.
Eric triumphed through those six weeks of life support, but over the next two years, he had numerous bouts of pneumonia, respiratory viruses and digestive problems. He was dependent on a breathing tank for his oxygen. We always knew where our little guy crawled to by following the fifty-foot oxygen tube that trailed from the breathing tank at the end of the hall, wound around the kitchen table and into the living room, and ended attached to Eric's face, allowing the prongs to let purified air flow into his nasal passages.
When he was seventeen months old, the doctors told us it was time for Eric to have his heart repaired. They said, "He's as healthy as he can be under such conditions. If you wait much longer, it will be too late." But they couldn't guarantee that his fragile heart and weak lungs would make it through the grueling surgery.
Forty-eight hours later, I stood by his crib and gazed past the tubes and wires to his angelic face, looked down and watched as he opened his eyes and focused on me. His smile illuminated the room. I let out a cry of relief. I knew Eric was here to stay.
Through it all, the writing has carried us through the recurring life-support crises as Eric's legs dangled again and again over death's pier. I recorded every experience, every emergency and breakthrough, every painful moment and every miracle as love carried us deeper into ourselves, peeling away our resistance, teaching us to rely on faith.
Our son needed cardiologists, pediatric nurses, therapists and specialists to repair his heart; we needed Eric to repair ours. Our lives were opened up to a degree I never knew existed. In the midst of these past years, I found myself sitting at the large table in the corner room of the Unity Center, where we held our Up with Down's meetings. I sat across from a brand-new mom and dad. She held her one-month-old, blond-haired, baby with Down's syndrome protectively against her chest, while her husband wrung his hands in his lap. "We haven't told our parents yet," she said. My eyes fixed on the young father's face as she spoke. His tears never stopped.
Then it came to me that my book should not be a secret from anyone, because we have known great pain and found miraculous healing. It comes from Eric's heart and mine. After more than four years, his valiant little heart beats stronger with each passing day we are given.
Today, we can't keep our son out of the playground. It's either monkey bars or basketball, soccer or T-ball. We've since built many a sand castle together, discovered new parks and playgrounds, have taken turns reading and rereading his books - yes, he is reading now! We have pretended to be manatees in our swimming pool and have eaten too much popcorn at the circus. We have a special boy who lives a joyful life.
Eric has his heart checked once a year, but his laughter washes away my fears. When I look into his bright eyes and feel the warmth of his bear hugs, I know his loving heart is going to be just fine. And so is mine.

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Just as I finished reading that,
my phone beeped.
It was an sms saying :

No sweet thoughts to forward,
No cute graphics to send,
Just a caring heart saying,
-Love you always-

Daddy.

The timing couldn't have been more perfect. It couldn't...
I love you too, dad.