Breathe

For the last month every breath I have taken has settled deep into my chest, weighing me down and crushing my every step. Everything beautiful seemed cruel and daily tasks became painfully redundant. The world stopped, and I wanted nothing more but to turn it back further into time when my son was a tiny baby full of promise and potential. Each night as I have tucked him in I've lingered just a bit too long at his bedside, planting kisses on his warm cheeks and whispering promises and prayers over his head. Today Tish and I took JT to CHOC to learn more about JT's brain tumor behind his right eye. Always a joy to be around, JT skipped into the MRI room and held his own sedation mask, pretending to sleep immediately and stealing smiles at the anesthesiologist. Everyone was smitten with him, his personality is infectious, and as he faded into twilight his hand dropped limply from mine.

He was heavily sedated this time around and struggled into consciousness, crying and shivering, only to fall back asleep sporadically over my shoulder. Time ticked by slowly and soon he sat up with that gorgeous smile, asking for a popsicle and apple juice. His tears already forgotten, we wheeled him across the hospital to see Dr. Loudon, his pediatric neurologist. Tish and I nervously sat passing the time as JT happily played on the floor. Soon it was his turn, I walked into the exam room and prepared for the worst...

Dr. Loudon swooped in with a smile and a firm handshake. I immediately asked what was going on with his eye, and Dr. Loudon looked at me completely perplexed. His eye? What about it? I asked if he had reviewed the MRIs yet and he said he had, and what was I talking about. I said his neuro ophthalmologist diagnosed him with a brain tumor behind his right eye last month and Dr. Loudon immediately brought us back with him to his computer and reopened the scans. Tish and I stood there awkwardly, stealing meaningful glances and assuming that at any moment Dr. Loudon would turn to us and say oh there it is. Instead, after taking a very thorough look, he turned and said he had no idea why his eye would be bulging because there is no tumor. He then suggested I find a new eye doctor.

What could I even say? The moment was ridiculously anticlimactic. I had a list of questions about tumor fighting drugs and radiation therapies, and instead was being referred back to a normal pediatrician to test for simple non-tumor related eye issues. My heart was exultant, but my head wont let the news sink in. If I believe it is true am I going to have my heart broken again? I feel vulnerable and suspicious, jaded by years of bad news I don't know how to be grateful for amazing news. We left the building and walked toward our van, laughing and chattering as though nothing had just happened. Nothing happened, the world never stopped, it was there all along, and suddenly I can breath.