William will be 5 years old this Sunday, September 11. We rejoice! Here is a poem I wrote some time ago. Happy Birthday, son. William’s Storm… Barely above a pound jettisoned into life Peeking through gauze Poked, prodded, stuck and skewered Surrounded by white coats, bright lights, beeps and bottles hanging on poles. Home […]
When the doctor told us that he did not expect William to survive through the week, I hurt to my soul. It was debilitating. Did it feel like the doctor punched me in my stomach? Getting kicked in the stomach by a horse is more like it. I thought, “How can he say something like that? How can he be so heartless?” The problem was this stuff was real. I mean it was real, yet I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. I couldn’t process the information. I was angry, hurt, and offended that he even said it. Why? Because my son was down the hall fighting for his life, literally! It was not that I thought my son was going to die. It was the possibility. That is what scared me. William had a number of obstacles in front of him. At first, he just had bleeding in the right side of his brain. A day later the bleeding was in both sides. He also had a collapsed lung, high blood pressure, his blood sugar was through the roof, and he was unable to breathe on his own. He was on 100% oxygen! Uphill battle? There’s no feeling like helplessness. I just wanted to do something for him…anything! Nothing like looking down at your child, who can fit in the palm of your hand, eyes covered in gauze because their underdeveloped, who’s laying inside of a container the size and shape of a cookie sheet wrapped in saran wrap with steam being blown over him (along with a heat lamp) to keep him warm.