Today Sam is 10. It feels unreal. Below is a post I wrote on his 4th birthday. I’ve added a few things in italics, but the emotions and thoughts are not much different. It’s been so long since I have given an update. I'd love to tell you that no news is good news. 2026 has not been an easy year for our family, but just like ten years ago, we continue to persevere (Romans 5:3-5). I’m thankful for my family and friends who continue to walk alongside us and put up with our malfunctions. It’s also been a season of lasts for us. Both Will and Abby graduated in the past two years. With the lasts, come firsts too and I’m excited for them. In the moment, it might not always feel like it, but it’s exactly what we want for our kids. We raise them hoping they will find their purpose, be kind humans, and be happy. My greatest hope for my kids is that Jesus will be their best friend. I truly believe with all my heart, if they have this then no matter what life throws at them, they will experience all the things most of us want for our kids, whether they are going through their hardest trial or experiencing their greatest success. Repost from June of 2020 To my sweet Sam. Each year when your birthday rolls around, off and on, I become numb. The moments where my world completely stopped, become vivid in my mind more often at this time of the year. This day four (now 10) years ago our lives forever changed. The days with you can be hard, scary, long, overwhelming, and a lot of work, BUT I wouldn’t change a single thing. Except for all of the pain and trauma you have had to endure. You’ve made me realize even more that, you never know what the stranger standing next to you has endured during this life, whether there is a smile on their face or not. Because of you, I’ve been able to meet some of the most amazing people, and even though there seems to be so much chaos in the world, you continue to make me see all the good in people. Today, and every year on this day to come, I will forever wonder what you will remember. What will you remember? Will you remember the day you were born when they immediately took you from me because you were turning blue? I don’t think so. Will you remember when you and Dad left in the ambulance without me? No, but I will. Will you remember that I didn’t see you and Dad until over twenty-four hours later? No, but I will. Will you remember at the beginning when they said you would have surgery and then go home in a few weeks? No, but I will. Will you remember when you were four days old? Dad and I were waving goodbye to you, tears in our eyes, as they rolled you away for your first of many surgeries? No, but I will. Will you remember when you were scheduled for surgery, but it got canceled because you went into cardiac arrest? I don’t know. Will you remember when I was going home for the first time after you had been in the hospital for almost three months to take your brothers and sister to their first day of school, but couldn’t because you went into cardiac arrest again? No, but I will. Will you remember when less than twenty-four hours later, you turned blue AGAIN, needing more than ten minutes of chest compressions this time? Maybe. Will you remember when the doctor would give us more bad news? He told us in order for you to have a chance at life you would need a tracheostomy? They would need to cut a hole in your throat to insert a breathing tube?!?! No, but I will. Will you remember the first time Dad and I had to change your trach (breathing tube)? No, but I will. Will you remember the surgery we had been waiting for since you were born that everyone thought would be successful, wasn’t? No, but I will. Will you remember when they told us they would be moving you to the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) because “NI (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) doesn’t know how to sedate kids like PI does”? No, but I will. Will you remember when you came back from surgery on your tummy with more chords coming from you than I could count or thought possible, on a huge bed that wasn’t meant for babies? No, but I will. Will you remember when they stretched your lower esophagus out of your upper back and your upper esophagus out of your lower back? No, but I will. Will you remember the balloons on your back that couldn’t move and if you would even flinch, they would quickly give you more sedation meds? No, but I will. Will you remember when I was weak, Dad was strong and when Dad was weak, I was strong? No, but I will. Will you remember when I read and sang to you every day during your thirty-four day medically induced coma? No, but I will. Will you remember one day while I was reading to you and your shoulder slightly twitched as if you knew it’s what I needed that day? No, but I will. Will you remember when they took you down to surgery to try connecting your esophagus to your stomach again, but couldn’t? No, but I will. Will you remember the chest tubes? No, but I will. Will you remember when they told us a chunk of your lower esophagus had torn off so they threw that piece of you away, sutured it again, and stretched again? No, but I will. Will you remember the brokenness I felt being torn between staying with you in the hospital and going home to be with your brothers, sister, and dad? This one still weighs on me often. No, but I will. Will you remember when they tried to do a trach change, but you went into cardiac arrest AGAIN and needed to be reintubated? I wonder. Will you remember when your ENT left his clinic that day just to check on you, told me we had been through so much, hugged me, and left to return to his clinic? No, but I will. Will you remember all the complications? No, and honestly, I already don’t. There were so many. And there have been many more since then. Will you remember the first time you opened your eyes after your thirty-four day medically induced coma? No, but I will. Will you remember when a part of me wanted you to close them again because they creepily raced back and forth? No, but I will. Will you remember when your nurse told me I would get to hold my baby after almost two months of not being able to? No, but I will. Will you remember, although you were tiny, that it took four people to carefully and slowly put you into my arms? No, but I will. Will you remember the tears immediately streaming down my face as I held you in my arms again? No, but I will. Will you remember when they told me we needed nurses in our home for up to twenty hours of the day to help take care of you? No, but I will. Will you remember when you were six months old and I took you on your first stroller ride, up and down the hospital halls? No, but I will. Will you remember how excited, yet terrified I was the day they told me we could finally bring you home? No, but I will. Will you remember when they put your car seat on the ambulance stretcher, all the hugs, people staring, doctors and nurses crying? No, but I will. Will you remember the first day you were home after spending over seven months in the hospital? No, but I will. Will you remember the many who thought you’d never make it out of that hospital? No, but I will. Will you remember the first time we went back to the hospital two weeks after you were home to get your esophagus stretched? No, but I will. Will you remember all the surgeries? You’ve now had over fifty and you’re not even four. Close to eighty now. No, but I will. Will you remember all the times we spent in the ER because the regular clinic, urgent care, or hospitals closer to us don’t know what to do with a kid like you? Thankfully, those trips are fewer and farther between, but they're still not a thing of the past. No, but I will. Will you remember that for over nine months people brought meals to our house? No, but I will. Will you remember the MANY cards, gift cards, and gifts we received? No, but I will. There is so much more I will remember, but you won’t and that’s how it should be. There are times I wonder if you will remember the four times in your life you met Jesus. I wonder if you’ll be able to speak someday and tell me all about it. Until then, I will love you like every mother loves their children. Happy 4th birthday my sweet boy!!!! Keep on being super!!!! |
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