When the doctors ask me how I stay so calm, I never know how to answer.
You are my son.
A mother doesn't get to fall apart when her child is fighting for his life. So I steady my trembling hands, swallow every scream, and pray you never see the fear behind my smile.
When the seizures steal you from me, your tiny body goes limp and your lips turn blue, time stands still. Then come the flashing lights, the emergency room, and machines far too big for someone so small. Wires cover your chest. Monitors trace every heartbeat while the little sock on your head carries enough wires to fill an entire room. The alarms cry out, and with every piercing beep, I hold my breath. I turn on Ms. Rachel who comforts you because you don't understand what is happening... and somehow, that hurts more than anything else.
I will never forget the day the doctors spoke words no mother should ever hear. They told me you would not live to see your second birthday. They gently prepared me for a future without you—for birthdays that would never come and milestones they believed you would never reach. They said you would never walk, never talk, never learn, because you have Miller-Dieker syndrome, and babies with Miller-Dieker, don't live.
But they did not know you.
They did not know the little boy who would fight for every breath, every step, every word. We have fought beside you every single day, and now, at four years old, you are proving them wrong. I watch you take steps in your walker. I hear your sweet voice tell me, "I love you." I watch you learn, laugh, and discover the world around you. Every milestone is a miracle I once feared I would never see.
If love alone could heal you, you would have never been sick. If a life could be traded, you could have mine.
I cannot give you my heartbeat, but I can give you every beat of my heart.
