I met him seventeen years ago yesterday, and I almost lost him.
I was in a delivery room, and we were waiting for the doctor to show up to finish off what-felt-like a marathon. I started to zone out a bit, and wondered what was up with that…in three previous deliveries, I had never noticed anything like that shocky, attenuated feeling.
A few minutes later, we found out what was up with *that.* Abruption was *that* and he had bled out in the womb right before delivery.
Cue the crash cart. Cue the anxious faces. Cue the rosary.
Two hours later the neonatalist was telling me that he wished all his patients were like Son, Interrupted, The Boy Who Lived. Oh, he spent a couple of days in the NICU, and it took more than twelve hours for me to be able to hold him (ranked as The Number One Besst Ever), but we left that hospital with him in our arms.
Overall, I really hit the jackpot with kids. I like them even more as they get older. I like hanging with them. I admire them. I wonder how they got to be so cool and successful and non-neurotic when I’m none of those things.
The youngest Son, Interrupted is the multiplier on that lottery win. I picked him up at school the other day and he grabbed my hand and walked through his high school holding it until we got to the car, an act which I thought was teenager Kryptonite. He shares his favorite shows with me. No offense, Other Kids, Interrupted: I think he’s the funniest of all four of you, which is no easy task.
Reliving the Besst of that long-ago day (and all that’s followed) was the Besst of Yesterday.
© E. Stocking Evans 2014
Mom, Interrupted 