Today was the day. Your icky casts came off at last. You could hardly sleep last night, you were so excited. We bought you brand new Ninja Turtles tennis shoes to wear, to celebrate the end of this leg of your journey. We brought your brother to great grandma's house, and you and I went to Nemour's. You were so excited all the way there. You announced to all the cars that passed us and all the people we saw that you were finally getting your casts off.
The techs came into the room with the saw, and noise cancelling headphones for you. You played the handheld, computerized Yahtzee game great grandma sent with you, and they began the process of taking off your casts. I concentrated on you and refused to look until both casts were off.
And then they were.
And then I looked.
I never knew feet could be beautiful. For the first time in your life, your feet were straight. Your toes pointed straight up to the ceiling. They were covered in pus, and peeling skin, and dried blood under the bandages, and metal sticking slightly out of the bottom of one foot, and they were the most beautiful feet I had ever seen.
I cried.
There is nerve damage in one foot, and no telling when you'll walk again, but your feet are straight, and they are beautiful.
We got home, and I put you in the tub for your first proper bath that didn't involve a bucket and a sponge in two months. When I pulled you out, I got my first look at the scars you are left with. You hate them.
"I'm ugly, Mom."
Oh my darling. No you're not. I pray one day you read this blog, or my FB which turned into an unintentional Mommy diary, so you can see these scars through the eyes of the person who loves you the most: your scars tell a story.
I look at those scars, and what I see is my beautiful blue baby boy on the day he was born, and the strength he showed me even then. I see a little boy who fought against the odds and won, who wasn't supposed to walk but did, who wasn't supposed to talk but does. I see a fighter, a little boy who doesn't know the meaning of the words "you can't" and who doesn't believe in "you will never."
I pray one day you see this, see your journey through the eyes of your mother, and that you are able to look at yourself in the mirror and say "I am wonderful. I am perfect. My scars are not ugly-they tell the story of the fight I fought that most of my friends will never know." I hope you are able to look at anyone who makes fun of you (and my darling, I'm so sorry-I know there will be someone somewhere who will, it's sadly inevitable) for your scars, and tell them "This is my journey. You didn't live it, and you do not understand it, but I am proud of the fighting spirit these scars represent."
Even if you aren't, I am.
You are amazing, sweet boy. I don't deserve you, but I have you, and I thank whatever lucky stars aligned to have that happen.
You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
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