Last Friday we arrived at the center. My 17 year old stared at the walls and rolled his eyes. Everything was decorated in a Disney theme — the walls covered with Finding Nemo cut-outs, the television played Monster’s Inc. “Sorry, that’s what you get for being under 18,” I reminded him.
“This is the Pediatric Heart Center. You’re son’s doctor ordered more tests.”
That’s not a message I wanted to hear. Matt’s heart rate had been high at his last appointment, over 155. But we thought it because he was just anxious. Now we were being sent to a specialist for an EKG, ultrasound and consultation for a diagnosis of Tachycardia (rapid heartbeat).
While filling out paperwork, I noticed the others in the waiting room. Parents with a small child leaned against the wall. A mom reading a magazine sat near her teen daughter. I wondered what these families endured. One little guy about three, began to sob as soon as his name was called. I figured he’d seen more doctors than most kids his age. During Matt’s EKG, I asked the woman how she handled her job since I assumed most of the patients she saw were quite sick. She told me if it weren’t for the miracles, she wouldn’t be there.
We finally went back to the ultrasound room and met the cardiologist. As he started the test, thoughts of another ultrasound rushed back to me. I was six months pregnant. Back then I stared at a grainy black and white image as the technician showed me pictures of my son for the first time. She pointed out fingers, toes, and his boy-part. She told us he looked healthy.
Last Friday as I watched the grainy image of his heart and heard he whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of his heartbeat I remembered those same sounds I longed to hear at each doctor visit while pregnant. After what seemed a very long time, the cardiologist smiled and told us Matt’s heart was healthy – just a bad case of nerves.
With confirmation of a healthy son and the chance to relive a heartfelt memory from seventeen years ago, I think we experienced one of those miracles.