I will look after you and I will look after anybody you say needs to be looked after, any way you say. I am here. I brought my whole self to you. I am your mother.
~Godmother Maya Angelou
My boy. My baby boy. His name is Blake. He’s the 2 year old version of my brother and my husband. I imagine I’ll find out soon enough where the pieces of me fit in him. I adore him. I could not eat him up any better if he came in a clear, scallop edged bowl with whipped cream and a cherry. He is my joy. All of my children are special to me. Still, the fact that he’s the caboose and he’s only 2 gives him a slight, albeit temporary, edge on his siblings. Act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.
He is my baby. The last one to hear my love from the inside.
My boy. It started as any other day with Blake blaking. “Blaking" is the verb form of Blake. Wherein an individual big or small is doing everything they are big enough to do. Now multiply that times 2 or 3. Yep. That's blaking. Anywho… I was doing my thing. I was folding clothes, talking to my brother and watching Blake play with his cars on the kitchen table. Now, our kitchen table is counter height. Typically, it would be a no for him to be up there, but he was just playing with his cars and watching Paw Patrol. He was chill… for once. #NoShade Blake. I saw him stand up in the chair, but I didn’t tell him to sit because he was reaching for a car that had gone just beyond his reach. Also, he’s the 4th kid.
By the time you get to the 4th one…. It’s not that you don’t care; it’s just—Damn, what could you possibly do that the three before you didn’t?
And Blake said, “Hold my beer.”
My baby boy. He stood up in that chair and somehow lost his balance. I saw it happening, but I was too far away to help him. The sound of his little body hitting the hard wood floor. The sound was full and harsh. It sounded like when I pick up a box that is too heavy and haphazardly drop it squarely on the ground. And before I could fully gather him up in my momma arms to hush his cries and make it better… I could see the blood filled lump on the back of his head. I rushed him to the hospital and waited while medical professionals do what they do. The questions, the wristbands, the cold room, the CT scan, hospital sounds and smells, the waiting.
To be honest, by the time we got to the CAT scan I was pretty confident that my baby was gonna make it— that he was going to be ok. But that left me thinking…
My Blake. The scan was clear. He was going to get to go home with me. He would have a bump on his head for a few days. He would milk it for all it was worth; intermittently saying “ouch” and holding his head. I would go home and drink a bottle of wine because my nerves = fried. But we would go home together.
What about all the mommas and daddies who have to leave there little ones behind? What about my heart mommas… whose little ones need several surgeries and hospital stays before they even reach the unripe young age of 2?
According to the CDC, cogenital heart defects are the most common birth defect in the United States and affect about 40,000 births per year. And while childhood cancers make up less than 1% of all cancers diagnosed each year; even one child with cancer is one too many.
Because that 1% means shit to the momma who is drowning in worry and sadness and uncertainty and fear.
Looking at his tiny little feet as he slept on the hospital bed left me feeling both tremendous sadness and gratitude. I don’t know the pain of a mother looking at tiny feet attached to a broken heart or a head balded by chemotherapy. I have never spent weeks— I have never spent a single night in a hospital with any one of my four children. I have never worried about how many more days I could spend at the hospital with my child before I lose my job. I have never had to wonder how my other children were getting through life while I spent every waking moment with my immunocompromised child. I have never had to consider how much it was going to cost; literally or figuratively.
And I have never ever had to think about how much time I have left with my sweet sweet boy. There are far too many mothers who cannot say the same.
Today, let’s lift those mommas—those parents up. Say a prayer. Donate to St. Jude and/or Ronald McDonald House. Maybe just ask how you can help. At the very very least never ever take the health of your babies… the fact that they get to go home with you… never take that for granted. Love y'all.
I'm not here because I'm an expert. I'm here because I have experiences. ~Stephanie