This morning, my husband and I had to drop our youngest son off at the airport...again. It wasn't as tough this time around as it was when we dropped him off before his trip to Paris (because that time, he was going to be gone for six weeks, and this time it will be only half that), but still...
[Sigh...] I get sad when I see this all-too-familiar sight:
The summer he was 12, he suddenly developed SVT (super ventricular tachycardia): after lacrosse practice, his heart began to race like crazy, and we rushed him over to the ER. When the triage nurse took his pulse, it was going at about 245 beats per minute, and they didn't waste a second getting him back to a treatment room. After seeing a pediatric cardiologist as a follow-up to the ER episode, we got the good news that although SVT can sometimes be a life-threatening condition depending on the cause, his was not. But instead of having to take beta-blockers for the rest of his life, his doctor recommended a procedure called an ablation, whereby a small catheter (with a heat zapper thingy on the end of it) is snaked up to the heart through a vein in the groin, and then when the extra electrical pathway that causes the SVT is identified, it's zapped. If all goes well, the pathway is obliterated and the person is considered 100% cured of the condition.
Remember now, our boy was 12 when he went through this. After about six hours in surgery, we went to see him back in the recovery room after he woke up...and the very first thing he said to us was, "How are you guys holding up?" He was concerned about US!
The first ablation didn't work, but the following summer a second procedure was performed and it was completely successful. I'll never forget that first time, though. Isn't that something? "How are you guys holding up?"
This is the kind of boy he's always been: sweet-tempered, thoughtful, calm, and mature beyond his years. While my husband and I watched through the glass as he went through the security line today, we saw him making friendly chitchat with the TSA employees. An older, grandmotherly woman really seemed taken with him. I told my husband she was probably telling our boy she'd like to bake him some cookies.
I know I might be biased, because he is after all my son. But I think he's an extraordinary young man, and I just love him so much.
Is it any wonder I hate these constant goodbyes?