“I hope not.”

 

The conversation (if it comes up) always starts the same.
My answer remains the same.

 

The week after we found out our baby had HLHS , I sat with the wild boys (ages 8, 6, and 4) by their favorite creek and gave them the talk.   I prepared them ahead of time with the “We’re having a family meeting tonight.”

The cold water rushes by as we investigate damages from the flood and crooks and crevices where minnows and salamanders reside.  The early autumn sun filters faintly through the trees.

It’s cool in the shade.  The water is like ice.

We plant down on a rock together.

“Ok, so I might cry, guys.”

“We know, because of grown up stuff.”

“Yes because of grown up stuff.”

“When can you tell us?”

“You’ll know more when you’re men.  But for now, you need to remember three things: compassion, privacy, and gentleness.  What do you know about them?”

My oldest knew all three.  My middle son knew two.  My youngest for now ’til January leaned his head on my shoulder and watched the water with his hand on my belly.  

We defined all three words together.

I blinked tears.  Weighed the line between telling them too little and too much.    Swallowed my own fears.  Not out of choice but necessity.  It’s game time whenever I’m with them.  Always the brave face after all we’ve already been through just harder now due to the fact that the worst is likely yet to come.

“I might cry when I tell you this.  I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“We know.”

“Our Marshall has a special heart.  And he’s going to need all the love we can give him because we don’t know how much time we’ll have with him.”

“Will he die?”

“My god I hope not.  I don’t know though.  He’ll need a lot.  And surgeries.”

“They’ll cut him?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

I point to my chest.

“Will they saw through his bones?”

“Yes.”

“Will he have scars?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a heart issue.  We’ll have to be super careful with him, more so than with normal tiny babies.  And we have to wash our hands a lot.  And we have to be really, really gentle.”

“Like this gentle, mommy?”

My four year old touches my arm.

“Yes.  And what’s most important is you know how much I love you.  And how each minute we can, Marshall needs to know how much we love him.”

I can’t blink.

They each give me a hug.

I can barely swallow.

I hardly breath.

And my chest aches with the love I have for all four of them.