This was worse than ever, Jude, my healthy kid, for all his developmental struggles and sensory issues and tearful rages that come with autism he has been physically strong, unlike his two brothers who lack the clotting one needs to endure the bumps and thumps of childhood. A phone call from school, a desperate ride to the hospital, a sigh of relief and then again, seizing and vomiting in the night, ambulances, more seizing and a doctor who won't make eye contact when we ask if he will be okay.
So many seizures in a row, we just aren't sure when he will wake up, if he will wake up. God, I say, don't take him. You know, only you know what he means to me. His smile gets me out of bed in the morning. My secret joy, the rest of the world sees a harried mom and feels sorry for me or perhaps inspired, my little secret is that Jude makes every day a party, every day like ice cream.
And then it happens, one of those epiphanies that only come when you've had no sleep and the infomercials are flashing with no sound on, that moment I could only come to on my own, no pastor or friend could do it for me.
He belongs to you, God. You can do what you want with him. Because he is not a possession of mine, he is not a puzzle piece that fits just so completing my life, he is yours, a creation all on his own, separate from me, separate from the day he slipped from my body and the doctor held him aloft for all to see. He is yours, and what I know more than anything is that you are good, always, always good.
Relief and peace came flooding in, in that room, past the nurses chatting and the blinking soundless TV and monitors and all over me, and I could even taste it, this moment of surrender, after all these years. And when my son opened his eyes and looked at me, I kissed him and thanked God for one more sunny day.