It hit me in the x-ray room.
Here we are with this tiny person who still doesn't have a real voice, who can't yet just say how he feels on a crappy day where all he wants is to be pulled so tightly into his mom or dad's chest.
That's the moment it hit me as you stood there in your diaper and a large machine took a picture of your chest.
That's the moment it hit me. We were going to get a glimpse of my worst fear, of the reason you were taken from me during your first days on earth. We were finally going to see your lungs. And then we would know the truth. And then all the recent restless nights and middle of the day worry sessions would finally have an answer.
Why can't you breathe like the rest of us? Why is it so hard for you? Why do you cough in the middle of the night sending your Dad into a panic where he just can't seem to go back to sleep. Why? Why are you so tired and out of breath after one lap around the room. Why?
That's the moment it hit me. In the x-ray room. You were so good, like you had done this before. Probably because you had three times. On your first day on earth, your second day on earth and finally your third. You were an old pro at x-rays. You were a pro with being poked and prodded and pulled because that was your introduction to the world...in the NICU.
That's when it hit me. And as I sit here patiently waiting the results from the x-ray, I realize this is what it feels like to be half alive and half in a mysterious space where you know your heart is still beating, but you don't feel all the way there. Like you half believe you'll get good news, but your brain is training you to be prepared for bad news.
So this is what it feels like to be half alive waiting to find out what is wrong with your child? I don't want to stay here long.
