Early Thursday morning we walked Lyle into an out patient surgery center in his jammies. He held his lovey. And his blankie. And I carried his back pack with a change of clothes. Not knowing what he would want to put on after his surgery. The mom in me was walking slowly. Holding his hand tightly. And trying to breath deeply. He was blissfully unaware of what was going to happen. He was not nervous or scared. Maybe because we’d told him he was just going to see another Dr. for his broken arm. The surgery was minor. As determined by someone who has not taken biology in 20 years. No incision. Just moving some bones around so they would heal straight.
He got into the cutest retro hospital gown ever. And they prepped him for surgery. He was beaming from all the attention. Smiling from ear to ear. The Dr. arrived. I kissed his sweet face 1,000 times and watched at they wheeled him away.
Greg walked across the street for coffee. And I sat in the waiting room. I pulled out my journal and began to write. And the first thing that came to mind was thankfulness. In such an unexpected way. I found myself thanking the Lord for my two D&C’s. At the time they were heart wrenching. Signifying the end of life. The end of a pregnancy. The end of hope for another baby. But years later as my heart beat for my sweet boy, I knew what he was experiencing. From check in to pre-op to waking up from anesthesia. I had walked a similar path before him. And I was thankful for that. And thankful that the hard road of loss, led us to him. Our sweet middle son.
To imagine that the Lord had prepared me for such as time as this. For such a time for my son. Was beyond beautiful. And I thanked Him. I thanked Him for those sweet lives lost and gained all according to His will.