67 Freckles and a potato-shaped nose.

“Happy Birthday, I love you!”

You have 67 freckles on your nose. It is the cutest potato-shaped nose I have ever seen. When you smile, I stop breathing for a few seconds; I have never known such joy. Everything in my life has brought me closer and closer to this day. Movies have made a lot of money when their theme is love at first sight. I never believed in love at first sight, and then my eyes got lost in the vast universe of your deep eyes, and I finally understood the term. For when my eyes first met yours, I did indeed fall in love with you. When you laugh, my soul explodes, and I am filled with joy to hear it and see it. When we are in bed cuddling while watching a movie, I am so grateful you chose me; I hold you close, too afraid to let you go in case I am dreaming. I honestly can say life is wonderful and perfect.

…

“Surgery will have to happen, but we need to run some tests to see if there is any brain damage”, I heard the doctor say, like a faint echo underwater.

I inhale.

My heart stops, I blink and try to swim out of the haze surrounding my vision and body. I know the doctor is talking again, but I cannot hear him; I ask him to repeat it one more time for me. I nod my head, but once again, I hear nothing; I feel the tightness in my chest, and my head is filled with an undertow of darkness as if I am falling deeper into the abyss of an ocean. I look into your eyes, and my own are filled with salty bitter tears, I am smiling at you, but I am scared. I am crying.

I exhale.

I am right there holding your hand as you go under the MRI scan. You squeeze my hand as your head disappears under the machine, my hand never letting go of yours. I look over at the technicians, and I try to read their facial expressions and their body language. I cannot really make out whether it is negative or positive. I look back towards your hand. I take in every detail, the way your skin folds around your thumb, the wrinkles that appear as we are locked together, both of us too afraid to let go.

“There is no brain damage. Surgery will still happen in five months’ time. The condition is called non-syndromic metopic craniosynostosis”. I once again start drowning in a sea of haze and fog. Time stands still.

I inhale.

It is the morning of your surgery. “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you so much!”. I hold you close to me, not wanting to let go, not wanting to give you to the doctor. The doctor is the best in the country. I’ve done my research, but I don’t want to let you go. “I love you; come back to me; I love you.”

Time slows down, and the sound of the seconds ticking away seems to last forever; I look up at the clock; it is eight in the morning; they take you away from me and walk down the long corridor towards your operation.

Tick, Tick, Tick.

With my head in my hands, I feel like I have been sitting there for hours, and I look up at the clock. It is five past eight in the morning. I need to get away.

Tick, Tick, Tick

It is now three in the afternoon. My mobile phone rings, and I hear, “Everything went well, Michelle; Tobias will be okay. He is in recovery; you can see your son in 30 minutes. He is a strong 5-month-old boy; he will be fine”.

I exhale.

…

“I cannot believe you’re eight! What a great day!”

            I honestly can say life is wonderful and interesting.