3 minute read
in this chapter
So much happens in Chapter 1 Sam’s heart. So I’ve pulled out a few pieces for you to sample. And you can read the rest once your book is delivered (wink wink).
my boy
My first sonogram. I’m four months pregnant with Sam (though we haven’t chosen his name yet) when we find out we’re having a boy.
“There.” The nurse points to the monitor, to the tiny, fluttering heart. “Do you see it beating?”
David and I squint at the tiny, convulsing blob on the black-and-white screen.
“Do you want to know the sex? The baby is positioned perfectly for us to see it.”
It’s too late; we see it. And David makes a wisecrack about the baby definitely being his boy.
After this, routine blood work indicates something might be wrong. My ob-gyn suggests an amniocentesis.
tuned-in
March 2, 1998. Sam is born with a vascular mark on his fleshy forehead, a reddish V between his eyebrows. I read somewhere that this mark is the sign of a highly evolved soul. Whenever he cries or gets upset, that down arrow between his eyes darkens. I know his heart is different, the way he absorbs every detail. A gift and a curse, being so sensitive, so tuned-in.
Our first year together is magical, joyful. Sam grows like a weed, works himself up into a sitting tripod, then learns to crawl. Before he can walk he speeds around on wheels in his baby walker and crashes into walls and doorjambs with shrieks of laughter. And that belly laugh. There’s nothing better than a baby’s belly laugh.
with alarm
I know it isn’t normal being so overprotective and hypochondriacal, panicking, worrying that every minor illness, fever, fall, or bruise might turn into something life-threatening. My overreacting, I notice, has made Sam afraid and overcautious too. After all, what ten-month-old worries when his father stands on a ladder to change a light bulb?
“Careful, Daadee,” Sam says, scrambling beneath David to support him with his little hand.
(from Chapter 1. Sam’s heart, a murmur)Amused at first, I took the picture, imagining its caption: Super Baby Holds Dad Overhead! But later, when I studied the photo, I recognized the look on Sam’s face as my own. I didn’t want either of us to be this way. I hated those adrenaline surges, flooding every fiber in my body with alarm—and not even knowing why the alarm was blaring.
a murmur?
December 24, 2002. Sam, four, is going to be an “office-man” and wear his clip-on tie and go to work with his daddy for a few hours, but he wakes up feverish, lethargic, glassy-eyed.
The pediatrician who sees Sam is new to the pediatric group where we take the boys.
He examines Sam’s throat, then looks inside his red-hot ears and confirms an ear infection. But he keeps listening with his stethoscope to Sam’s heart.
I stay quiet and smile at my little boy’s flushed face, noting how fiery it looks; even the faded birthmark, that reddish V between his eyes, has reappeared.
(from Chapter 1. Sam’s heart, a murmur)“I hear an unusual sound,” the doctor said. “A murmur—a very unusual murmur.”
That’s odd, I thought. For over four years, since Sam was born, none of the other doctors in the practice had ever heard or mentioned a murmur.
“His fever may be amplifying it,” he added, “but he’ll need to see a cardiologist. We’ll get that set up for you.”
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