Before they comprehended the unimaginable, everyone in the hospital room froze. No one knew why there was such a terrible hush.
Everything wasn’t meant to go apart on that particular day. I was anticipating my child’s birth, the most exquisite moment of my life. The room, the little clothes, and the big hopes were all ready.
However, as soon as he entered the room, there was quiet instead of tears or laughing. My blood ran chilly due to the dense silence. 😶
Lost, I looked about. Without saying a word, the doctors froze. Suddenly, the air felt too heavy to breathe. My heart beat slowly, like though time itself were trying to stop it.
— “Why don’t you say anything?… Has something occurred? With a weak voice, I whispered.
The physician looked at the monitor without a word. Beside him, a nurse started crying. That sound, just a plain sob, left a scar on my memory.
I was anticipating my infant’s cries. That little cry that indicates he is alive, breathing, and present. However, nothing. Just that terrible silence and the buzz of the machines. I resisted leaving when someone attempted to take me away. I had to comprehend. Why is there no sound? Why was nobody talking?
I could never express what I saw in the doctor’s eyes when he finally came close. A flash of powerlessness. a restrained terror. Then he spoke something that would forever alter my life: a brief, icy, and irrevocable sentence.
Three years have gone by today. My son is still nonverbal. No sound, no words. But I can tell he understands everything when we look at each other. He responds without using words. There are times when he smiles, and it seems like the entire world is holding its breath.
However, there is something that nobody is aware of. Something that hasn’t even been grasped by the doctors.
Additionally, this secret I’m at last prepared to share it.
I was unable to embrace him. Before he vanished down the hallway, all I saw was a little, frail body with skin so thin the veins were apparent. My heart seemed to follow him. I muttered:
– “Don’t take him away from me again, please.”
I didn’t get any sleep that night. I was reminded of what I lacked by the other babies’ screams and the sweet voices of their moms. I eventually saw him through the incubator glass the following day, complete with connections, sensors, a mask, and that small heart that was still beating in spite of everything. I put my finger close to his; he took it feebly. Tears fell.
The nurse said, “He senses you.” “Continue conversing with him.”
I told him about our house, his father Julien, and the sea we would see together every day. “The first weeks are crucial,” the physicians said, being cautious.
A heart arrest, two consecutive illnesses… Nevertheless, he remained. Every heartbeat and breath is a miracle.
The incubator was then open one morning. The respirator was no longer necessary for him. At last, without any cords or boundaries, I held him against me. His heart pounding against mine, his warm body on my chest. Months of worry were obliterated by the frail smile he offered me a few weeks later.
Three months later, we went back home. He turns five today. He shouts, laughs, and runs in the garden, saying, “Look, Mom!”
We go back to the hospital each year. He is referred to by the nurses as Lyon’s miracle. He shows them drawings of rockets and lions. And he is as powerful as a lion.
What have I learned from Leon? That love comes before healing, that courage may fit in the palm of a hand, and that silent struggles permanently alter who we are. And that peace can be found even in stillness.
