“At least you got to take her home. ” she said as she unpacked her son’s medical supplies which she’d offered to me after his passing.
He was a beautiful boy, so strong and brave, a real fighter, barely even 3 months old when I met him.
He was born with the same form of EB we thought my daughter had, but his wounds were so much worse. After battling with many serious wounds, infections, and finally heart complications, he finally returning to his Lord in March of that year.
This little boy wasn’t born to me, but his memory remains with me to this day.
I remember holding his tiny body in my arms, his bandages moist even though they’d only been changed a few hours before.
I remember what it was like to hold him, to play with him, to love him. He wasn’t born to me, but it was as if he was my own. So when I heard of his passing a few weeks later, I walked in a dazed state to my husband who was waiting for me with our daughter at the hospital, gave him the news and felt my legs give way beneath me.
I cried at the loss of his little life. My heart ached for his loved ones left behind and I prayed that their hearts wouldn’t lose faith because of this.
Many months later, when we eventually got around to visiting the family, and saw how they gotten through it all, I thanked God for the beauty of faith. I thanked Him for the gift of perseverance, and I thanked Him for allowing me to bring my baby home.
