When we finished up with all the pre-surgical tasks (ekg, chest x-ray, blood draws) and concluded our tour of the pediatric intensive care, she asked if we had any questions. I shook my head No. I am pretty sure this woman, the cardiac care liaison, meant questions about the procedure or related logistics. I’m clear on all of that. I wish I could have said Yes! Tell me how it is that I’m standing here now. Tell me how to breathe tomorrow. Please tell me that when he’s grown he will look back on his babyhood with vague memories of goodness and security and love, not fear and pain. Will he grow up? Will he be ok?
Please know that I’m expecting a great lifting surge of kind thoughts and intentions from you (whoever you are) tomorrow.
My tiny boy, just barely three months old, is having his chest cut open and his broken heart repaired tomorrow. My baby is going to have his heart stitched up on Valentine’s Day and nothing else matters. If you know my boy or know his story, I have to believe you will be thinking of him. How could you not? Every heart shape you see will be etched with his name. Ulysses is loved.
I have been so caught-up in the newness of everything, so focused on learning about my son’s issues, that these past three months have happened in a snap. This is my honest excuse for having such a backlog of thank you notes and letters. So much kindness has come into our home, through the mail and from in-person friends alike and I am so appreciative. Consider this a placeholder of a proper thank you, a sincere acknowledgment until the worries fade some and I can send an actual written response.
Please think of us tomorrow, with all of your love and hearts and sweets. It’s going to be a very hard day.
(if this first post from my phone is successful, i might be able to blog during the coming week at the hospital)