That sentence was "will you consider terminating the pregnany?" and my answer, without missing a heartbeat, was "absolutely not" and then the doctor's (who I adore to this day) response was "okay, so let's figure out how to make sure you get out of this pregnancy alive"...This would be the day that I found out that my childbearing days would end on the day of my son's birth. I knew about the hysterectomy for weeks and that I'd be in the hospital for weeks because being at home would mean a certain death if I went into labor. I didn't care. I prayed every day for the life of my son. I also prayed that I would rejoice every day if I was able to raise him. So, I rejoice every.single.morning when I open his bedroom door in the morning until the very moment that I tuck him in at night.
See, I'd jump in front of a bullet, speeding bus, give up any organ to keep Cooper alive. Every day, I pray, and my unending prayer, is that I never outlive another child of mine. I would never survive. That was my thought as I told the doctor that termination was not an option. That's a pretty deep thought that didn't take more than a heartbeat.
So, when I say that I don't take a day for granted, I mean it. I don't take a tantrum for granted. I don't take a single laugh, kiss, hug, smile, puke, nose-picking, or whatever else happens during the day for granted. You'll never hear a complaint come from my mouth about my child. EVER. His challenges are still a joy to me.
He's a miracle to me. I fought for him before I ever met him and I'll fight for him until the day that I die...