Good. At least one of us is thinking clearly.
“We need to go to Mountainview,” I tell the paramedics when they arrive, somehow keeping my voice level. “They have the pediatric cardiology unit.”
They nod, already loading Austin onto a gurney. The straps look too big against his thin arms, swallowing him up. He looks so small, so fragile. Six years old and already intimate with hospitals and medicine and fear.
This isn’t how childhood is supposed to go.
The ambulance ride is a blur of beeping monitors and Austin’s scared eyes. Keshia holds my hand while I hold his, and I try to project calm I don’t feel.
Dr. Murphy is waiting when we arrive. The same cardiologist who delivered Austin’s original diagnosis, which feels like both a blessing and a curse. At least she knows his case.
She examines him quickly, efficiently, ordering an IV and medication that brings his heart rate down and puts color back in his cheeks. Within an hour, he’s sitting up in bed eating pudding like nothing happened.
But I know better. This isn’t nothing.
“Ms. Walker, can I speak with you privately?”
The words I’ve been dreading.
I kiss Austin’s forehead and follow Dr. Murphy down the hall to a small consultation room. There’s a couch, a chair, and a box of tissues on the table.
The tissues are never a good sign.
“I’m going to be direct with you,” Dr. Murphy says, settling into the chair. “The medication isn’t controlling Austin’s symptoms the way we hoped. His condition is progressing.”
My hands clench in my lap. “What does that mean?”
“It means we need to discuss surgery.”
The word echoes in my head like a death sentence. Surgery. My six-year-old son, his chest cut open on a table.
“How dangerous is it?” I ask, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.
Her hesitation tells me everything I need to know.
“Any heart surgery carries risks. But if his valve keeps deteriorating, we won’t have a choice.”
I nod, filing away every word. Later, I’ll research everything she’s told me. I’ll become an expert on pediatric heart surgery and valve replacement and whatever else I need to know to advocate for my son.
Right now, I just need to hold it together.
“What can I do to help him avoid surgery?”
“Minimize stress. Make sure he doesn’t miss any medication doses. But Ms. Walker...” She leans forward, her expression gentle but serious. “You need to prepare for the possibility that it might not be enough.”
I swallow hard because speaking feels impossible.
When I get back to Austin’s room, he’s showing Keshia his pudding cup art—apparently he’s made a smiley face in the chocolate.
“Look, Mommy! It’s happy pudding.”
I smile and ruffle his hair. “It’s perfect, baby.”
He is. My son is absolutely perfect.
And I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to him.
Not on my watch.
