It is the middle of the night phone call no mother wants to get. The one where time stops.
The feeling of slowness in which you can’t seem get to him fast enough. The moment your eyes see him. Touch his face. Hold his hand. Wipe his tears. Look into his eyes.
And when the initial panic is over and the reassurance that by a miracle he will be okay, momma crumbles with the weight of it all. One minute I am strong and the next I find myself washed up in heartache.
In the coming days the sound of a siren punches me in the stomach. The overwhelming worry crushes me. The relief that he is okay consumes me. The closeness of what may have been devours me. I am in a riptide of emotion wanting badly to gasp for air.
In one breath I am so grateful, in another breath I am so sad.
Bittersweet. So very bittersweet.
As I process the last five days, I realize that through this experience I discovered within myself another deep, deep layer of compassion being exposed. Painfully exposed. During this I witnessed an insight as to what the family members and parents have gone through with the clients I share yoga with; the bedside tears, the inundation of medical information, the crushing sadness and fear.
Perhaps this pain will make be a better person. It will crack me open into new territory that I would have missed had my child not had a brush with mortality. I know that I will hold him a bit tighter, I will feel a little deeper, I will pause a little more, and I will for sure use this to love a whole bunch more.