This post is a bit of a blast from the not-so-distant past. I wrote this last October, but I couldn’t share it with the world until now.
Sometimes there are things that are so heavy they need time to settle before they can be spoken.
Today … Today I can breathe.
My youngest son was diagnosed with a tumor last week, a “most likely benign tumor,” but that still means “could be malignant. ” The specialist got us in fairly quickly but nothing is quick enough when you’re waiting to hear if one of the four most precious people on earth is in mortal danger.
Nothing is fast enough when you’re waiting to find out if the universe will still keep turning.
So for the past few days, I held my breath. I tossed and turned through the nights. I distracted us through the days and tried not to think about the only thing I could possibly think about: my son, my son, is my son going to be ok? I found myself playing memories through my mind and stopping myself as I slipped into moments of pure panic. I cried every time I was alone. I teared up at the high school football game watching him play with the school band.
I smiled on the outside while my kids used humor to deflect the worry I know was there, with my youngest yelling out “tumor privilege!” and stealing things from his older brother with a twinkle in his eye. I watched as his brothers joked along with him, knowing full well they wanted to help him carry that burden by helping him smile.
I begged God not to take my baby from me. I pleaded for the best diagnosis.
And today I got the very best news. My lungs drew in air for the first time since last week when the doctor said there was a blockage in his ear canal and I realized with growing horror exactly what she was telling me. I came to the ocean to soak in some late fall sun on an unseasonably warm day, breathe in the salt air, and finally let go of the tension and worry I was holding. I wanted to shout to everyone else on the beach that my son is ok – he’s ok!!
He’s ok.
And today I can breathe again.
