Just Breathe...

I look out the window to see two police officers walking toward our front door. I grab my husband out of the shower. We don’t know the exact words they are about to say, but we know we are most likely entering every parent’s worst nightmare.

Our son. Wreck. Hospital. Respirator. No other information.

I thank God he’s alive. I pray He will keep him alive. I pray He will give us the strength to accept whatever happens.

My husband calls the church. I call my mother and our other son.

Breathe, my baby boy, just keep breathing. You can do it. Please keep breathing…

My husband and I hold each other. We pray. We cry.

We drive at first in silence. We are both thinking what we are afraid to speak. My husband finally says, “I hope we don’t have to make any tough decisions.” We don’t want to relive his parent’s nightmare. Their oldest son died in a motorcycle accident. Now our son, his namesake, hangs in the balance. We cry and cling to one another on the way.

I am sobbing and gasping for air. My husband says the line I usually say to him, “just breathe, baby. Just breathe.” We are completely numb but somehow we manage to walk from the parking lot to the hospital.

We go to the ER and are sent to ICU. They can’t tell us anything.

We pace. We pray. We cry. We cling. We don’t know what to do.

Our son and his girlfriend arrive soon. We hold one another through tears and questions.

We are told it’s a miracle he’s alive. They tell us he has some brain bleeds, swelling, and damage. The extent is unclear at this time. We are told the next 24 hours are critical. Things can go either way.

We are taken to our son. We talk to him. We tell him we love him. We hold his hands. Each time we try to pull away he tightens his grip on us. We take turns with him to allow his closest friends in. We hope they can draw a response. It works. His friend who is a medic knows how to prod him. Our son smirks and opens his eyes briefly. His friend jabs him with a personal joke. He slowly forms a circle with his thumb and forefinger extending the bird to his friend. The respiratory nurse says it’s the best sign she’s seen all day. We rejoice in his humor.

In no time the waiting room is overflowing with friends; his, ours, and our other sons’. We are fully supported in love. The phone calls and texts are continuous. We are too distraught to respond.

He comes and goes. I see the fear and confusion in his eyes as he looks from one of us to the other. He tries to speak but is unable to form the words he wants. He gives a peace out and pound sign to his friends.

We experience many more miracles in the next several days. He starts talking and remembering some things.  He walks out of ICU. The nurses fluff his pillow and applaud. They never see people “walk” out of ICU and take great joy in this moment. Though some memory is sketchy, he knows his name, birthday, and city but thinks it’s eight years prior. In a few days, he gets the date. Different areas of memory return, others remain questionable. Five days after admittance, he walks out of the hospital. We have a long way to go, but we are willing to do what we need to restore his health. We thank God for this blessing of life.

Please believe in miracles; they happen every day. Sometimes miracles are subtle and we don’t see them for what they are. Other times they truly come in the form of God’s grace, seat belts, air bags, and roll bars.

I ask you please hold our son and our family in prayer, love, light, and healing energy. We are thankful for our many blessings. For now we will take life a minute at a time. ..we will just breathe…

”Miracles happen every day. Not just in remote country villages or at holy sites halfway across the globe, but here, in our own lives.” – Deepak Chopra