Pink Toes

Zachary has pink toes.

Thursday, that horrific, difficult, awful day, is over. And here, in the stillness of my home, the quiet is my benediction.

My youngest son – the smallest, most fragile of a large, blended family – has stood at the edge of oblivion and returned.

The weeks building to this day brought tension, anxiety, stress and fear. Overwhelmed by nature of Zachary’s needs, we, his parents, had no real plan, no other process in place. We simply turned our faces toward the storm and prayed.

For the third time in our lives, Karen and I made the long, long walk down the yellowish-tan colored hallway to the operating theater. This time, Karen went in with Zach as they put him under.

She walked out the doors sobbing.

We returned to the third floor of Children’s Hospital and started out long vigil. The clock seemed to move backward. Once again, we huddled inside the waiting room with friends and family and made mindless conversation. We talked about politics and God and life.

And waited.

The heart surgery was seven hours long.

Throughout the day, a telephone would ring. The call came from inside the operating room. A nurse would tell us things were fine. The calls were short, the conversation limited to just a few words.

But each of us hung on every word.

Late in the afternoon the surgeons had finished. Zac was taken to ICU and Karen rushed to be next to him. I helped pack up the stray bits that humans bring with them for hospital stays – food, books, gadgets and pillows.

About five that afternoon, I saw my son.

He was covered in tubes and probes and his small body outlined by thin wires. The wires led to a stack of machines. I found a chair against a wall and, again, played the ‘watch the monitor change’ game.

The monitor functioned as a numeric representation of Zach’s life: But the numbers and zig-zag patter of Zach’s heartbeat wasn’t what drew my attention. It was the color pink.

My son has pink toes.

For more than two years, I’ve watched Zack grow. Every single day since he stepped into this orb we call Earth, his tiny fingers and his small toes have been bluish purple. Because the oxygen content of his body was so reduced, Zach had never known a day with a full supply of oxygen to his lungs.

Until now.

Now, Zach has pink toes. And pink finger-tips. His eyelids are peach colored and his cheeks and lips are flesh tinted. His little hands felt warm.

Zach has pink toes.

Unless you’ve lived with a child starved for oxygen, you cannon imagine the anguish watching your son run and play and giggle for a few minutes then be forced to stop, gulp huge amounts of water and sit still trying to breathe.

All this, while his little face and hands and feet colored themselves cyan.

Now, today, after three years later, Zach has pink toes. Instead of a blood oxygen level of 71 percent, he is ringing the bell. His stats are in the high 90s.

The worst day of my life has passed. But given the choice of reliving it over or watching my son turn blue, I would gladly hit the replay button again and again and again.

Because, now, Zach has pink toes.