Dear E,
In February bitter arctic air crept south. We aren’t equipped for such a deep freeze in Oklahoma. So cold, we had to blow space heaters on exterior pipes to keep them from freezing. It was the coldest winter I have personally sheltered through. Regardless, the winter wonderland before your eyes was absolutely irresistible. You were already out the door before I could warm myself over a cup of coffee.
I didn’t see you fall on the ice. I just remember scooping you up off the pavement and attempting to console you, while trying to judge the seriousness of the bump you took on your head. After some observation, your dad and I decided he would take you to the ER. A few hours later we would begin to understand just how significant the fall was.
Eventually we found ourselves sitting in a pediatric neurosurgeon’s office. While the fall to your head caused a mild concussion, doctors discovered, through a CT scan and subsequent MRI, you had a grape sized congenital cyst snugly situated between your brain and skull. The surgeon explained just how much pressure it was putting on the left hemisphere of your brain, while also beginning to thin the bone it pushed against. The recommendation was that we remove the benign spinal fluid filled sac.
Leading up to your surgery, I put on a brave and calm exterior while sifting through some intense lament internally. While preparing you, all you could talk about was spending the night in the hospital and trying their food.
Surgery day came, and we couldn’t have prayed for a better outcome. You came out of surgery bright, cheerful and very hungry. In between pain meds and studying the menu for your much anticipated meal, all you talked about was a cheeseburger. To my suprise, when it came time to order, you settled on grilled cheese and tomato soup.
“Do you know why I ordered grilled cheese instead of the cheeseburger, mom?” you asked, “because there are children here much sicker than me. I want them to have the cheeseburger.” You went on to explain how a grilled cheese sandwich was much easier for the cook to prepare compared to the cheeseburger. Afterall, there was no need to spend time on your meal when others needed special attention.
You: a little boy coming out of neurosurgery, with no thought of your own physical suffering but focused on the pain others experience. The fact that you possess such an acute understanding for the plight and feelings of others, while having no concept of how a hospital kitchen works astounded me. It took a minute for me to wrap my mind around your sacrifice.
This is the part of your story: your resilience, courage, and your continuous outpouring of love that beckons me to look inward and reflect on how I choose to love those around me. A little boy a few years away from double digits inspires me in the most profound way. It is how you love and the way you love that makes me pause and step out of my own selfishness; I desire to love in that way too. I pray that your heart continues to love radically, serve those around you, and inspire. Keep going my little love.
Love,
Mom
Welcome to Artifact Motherhood. This is a collaboration of artists from around the world who have come together to share our stories of the joys and struggles of our journey. Through our writings and visual records, we want to create memories that are more than photographs with dates written on the back. These are the artifacts we are leaving behind for our children and for generations to come. Up next is the amazingly talented Ann Owen click here to follow the link.