But nothing prepared me for the seven hours I spent in a plastic waiting room chair while surgeons held my nine-year-old son’s heart in their hands.
When they finally let me see him, Caleb was propped against the pillows, his face the color of old paper. Wires ran from his chest to a monitor that beeped steadily beside the bed. And resting over his hospital gown, rising and falling with every shallow breath, were his father’s dog tags.
He hadn’t taken them off since he was four.
His eyes cracked open. “Mom. You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The worried one.”
“I’m allowed,” I said, smoothing his hair. “It’s basically in my job description.”
He managed a weak smile. Then his fingers found the tags and rubbed the metal, the way he always did when he was scared and didn’t want me to know.
