His name means God has Healed

I married that man. We had three sons together, all with names from the Bible. My first son made me a mother. My second taught me that you can love differently and still feel just as intensely. My third healed something in me. I needed him more than I realised. Even his arrival felt different. I was supposed to have surgery when I discovered I was pregnant. He had not been planned by my calendar or circumstances. In my heart, he was planned by God. His birth was straightforward. Feeding him was straightforward. Sleeping felt magical; I sensed his emotions and needs before he realised, and since his day, he knows how to reassure me. Then, around seven months old, he became seriously ill. Suddenly, my baby was in hospital, connected to machines everywhere. Doctors gave me a room nearby, expecting us to be there for a long time. Then a hospital chaplain came to speak to me. I understood what that conversation was preparing me for—the possibility that I might leave that hospital without my baby. No. I had given birth to him in that same hospital. God had put this child in my belly when I wasn't expecting him. There was no way I was leaving without him. I cried. And I prayed. Everyone prayed. Family. Friends. People around us. I pray that no one else ever has to live through that. My husband was collecting the children while I still refused to leave my baby's bedside. Then four doctors came to see me and asked me to follow them into another room. Among them was a woman wearing a family gold ring on her pinky. I was struck by her presence, so sure of herself. The way she moved her hand while speaking caught my attention, and I tried to focus on her ring to stop crying while the doctors explained that if I saw her again—the head of cardiology—it would mean inserting two tubes into his neck to help his heart and blood work properly. They said it twice, to ensure I understood. Yes, I understood. You are my baby's last hope if his condition worsens. So it's better if I never see you again. My cousin arrived to help with my older children while I remained at the hospital. Then she asked if she could visit the baby. When she arrived, she was beautifully dressed and wearing makeup. For a moment, I actually thought: You're coming to see my critically ill child looking like you're going to a party? What's wrong with you? I had forgotten something important. My cousin was a woman of strong faith. She hadn't come dressed for mourning.