White walls. Tile floor. Blue table. Chair.

Breathe.

My eyes look around the room again.

White walls. Tile floor. Blue table. Chair.

Breathe.

No doctor. My willpower can not bring him through that door.

More waiting. Play with the baby.

The baby. The reason we are at the specialist.

He demands attention, and yet my mind is in another world. Lost in fear and worry.

It’s been an hour. How long does it take to read the test results? My heart quickens and my breath is shallow. “Why does this room look so cruel?” I think.

White walls. Tile floor . . . 

Knock, click, turn, open.

Doctor.

Remember to breathe.

He talks and his voice echoes through my head. Talk slower, doctor. Use words I can understand, doctor. What does this diagnosis mean, doctor? Do I have any questions? Yes! But I can’t think. All I hear is water rushing in my ears.

I look at my son. He’s beautiful.

This changes everything.

Our world as we know it is done. Welcome to a world where each new day is an unknown. Our lives begin again that day.

The doctor looks at me. I take the hint, it’s time to go. I’m ushered out the door and told to schedule a follow-up. I’m a robot. I go through the motions. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. I walk to the car, get in, turn the ignition, hands on the steering wheel, and cry.

As if it were a talented artist, my memory has etched that day into my brain with precision. When I think of it my heart still races and my breath becomes shallow.

My son’s diagnosis shattered our hearts. Yet, I don’t share this without hope.

God has replaced many of those shattered pieces. In the years since, He has been so faithful to use my son’s diagnosis to bring hope and joy to our family and others around us. God is the great redeemer and has reminded me every day that, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.” (Isaiah 43:2)

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