The dinner table hasn’t even been cleaned yet, and I’m trying to finish a decor post about our new house and cozy corners. Thankful to have a few subscribers so far.

But to be honest, this week our son Cannon goes back to Cincinnati for his six- month scans. He turns 18 next week.
It’s been a five-year journey. And I’m tired. But I stand in awe of who he is.

I’m watching him circle the living room, his bare feet walking fast as he spins his toy airplanes… something he has done since he was a little boy.

He is turning into a man.
A man whose childhood was taken from him just as he finished a strong baseball season in the middle of a beautiful summer at the beach, right before his eighth-grade year.

While everyone was filling out paperwork for their children to enter school, I was signing mine out.

Holding back tears as the front desk lady said, “Remember, the Bible says laughter is the best medicine.”

The thought of laughter made me sick to my stomach.

But that very verse… that piece of advice… has sustained us many times.

The noises around me seemed far off, distant, as if my ears were clogged and I couldn’t make sense of anything. I was suddenly overwhelmed and confused about the life I was now living.

I watch him spin his toy plane, his cheeks flushed… the same cheeks I would kiss as I tucked him into bed with his stuffed bear, Bo, and his Toy Story figurines, reading and praying over him before he slept peacefully.

Years later, I would be rubbing his feet at 2 a.m., monitors beeping all night long.

The beeps were both nightmares and comfort. He would cry out in pain, and I would beg God to stop this torture.

But my son… my almost man… said it was good for him to endure this journey.

Then he turns and looks me in the eyes and asks me if I feel the same.

And I can’t say it like he can.

I can’t do it.

I’m tired. I’m exhausted.

I bear the weight of watching my child suffer… and then giving thanks in the same breath.

What life is this?
Why, Lord?

I have this repeating image in my head of his biopsy that was scheduled in Charleston. But we decided, in faith, to cut off care and transfer him to Cincinnati. His biopsy was to be performed under the care of a new medical team.

As my husband and I sat beside him in the recovery room afterward, I watched him lie there… swollen and pale.

I watched as his toes started turning gray.

A panic rose from the pit of my stomach. That mother’s intuition is a God-given gift.

I knew something wasn’t right.

I said something to the nurse nearby. She checked his temperature, shook the thermometer, and looked confused at the number on the device. She checked again.

You could feel the frantic energy start to rise… like fire on the first floor. Smoke seeping through every crevice to the second floor.

Your body starts to shake. You smell fear. You actually taste fear.

Our son was cold. The nurse knew it and immediately alarmed the team.

Doctors. Nurses. Anesthesiologists. Anyone nearby rushed in, assessing the situation, immediately started pumping bags of blood into him.

My sweet boy was losing blood. So much blood.

His biopsy was high risk.

My baby. My oldest. The one who made me a mom.

Internally losing blood at such a rapid pace.

I felt like I was floating. I couldn’t take my eyes off his toes.

The toes that were gray were once the toes that gripped the floor as he was learning to walk. He was so proud of himself, pushing chairs and ottomans around the house with those little toes.

His curly blonde hair and blue eyes would look up at me in excitement and pride.

All I could think about was how much I wanted to kiss his feet. Make him laugh. Tickle him. Hold his hand. Run with him on the beach. Wipe those sandy toes.

Instead, I was grasping at time … hoping I had enough time to tell him I love him.

My breath was leaving my body. My vision was blurry. I felt as if I was floating.

I wonder why, in these times, God lets us float.

Are the angels lifting us up?

The chaplain came in and tried to talk to me, and I told him I know my God.

I ended up telling him about the God I know.

The staff would try to get me to sit down. I refused.

I felt like a phoenix… strong and determined.

I would stand until I couldn’t stand any longer.

I would pray until I had no strength left.

I would beg until I had no words left.

El Shaddai.
God of the Mountain.

I’ll look for Him.
Always.

With Love,
Erica
Salty Blonde Living