The love of my life is finally home. I haven’t seen him since the holidays and my heart is swelled with love. I knew the moment he pulled into the driveway because Apollo The Sun Dog, went berserk, running in circles and jumping at the door. His boy was home and he was ready to welcome him with open paws, face licks and toy jousting. Z barely drops his bags at the door before getting tackled and soon both are sprawled on my living room floor, wrestling and pouncing. I am thrilled. I am ecstatic. I am relieved, for when this child is not in my sight, a piece of me is missing.

Z is the child that almost died in my arms in the birthing room. Z is my miracle. I was holding him when the nurse came in to take his footprints. When she unwrapped his blankets she instinctively knew he was in trouble. I thought he was sleeping when, in fact, he was dying in my arms. Within the hour of his birth, he was rushed into surgery and I was told to prepare for the worst. They prepared the life-flight to fly him to Chicago and put him on an infant heart/lung machine, which our local hospital didn’t have. I could do nothing but wait and pray. My four-year old daughter paced the room repeating, “I am so mad. I am so mad.”

My husband went with his father down to surgery while my mother stayed at my side. The call finally came that Z had pulled through surgery with flying colors and they were placing him in the local neonatal intensive care unit. I had to leave the hospital without my baby. In the middle of the night I would hear him calling me, drive to the hospital and sit with him. The day finally came when he was allowed to come home. I remember walking him to the car when it began to snow. It was the end of April and it was snowing, like a scene from a movie. I took this as a sign from the Universe that this child was special beyond belief. And he is.

He has been my rock. Growing up, he gave me fits; trips to the emergency room for stitches, always harassing me, as well as being my jester, making me laugh more than anyone else could. He does not let me get by with anything and calls me out every chance he gets. Often, when I have not cleaned the house, he remarks, “Oh, I love what you’ve done to the place. Did you call in a decorator for this look?”

But, when I need him, he shows up every time, without fail. I had surgery four years ago, right after I divorced his father. I told Z not to worry, don’t come home, I’ll be fine. He was at school and I didn’t want to interrupt his semester. The day before surgery I am working in my home office and I hear my back door opening. It was Z. He’d hitched a ride home with a friend to be at my side. The gesture brought tears to my eyes. He stayed with me, caring for me the entire week before he found another ride back to school.

Now, he is home again and my heart is tap dancing. I only have him for one week, but he is all mine for that week. He is over six feet tall, but in my eyes, he is the baby that almost died in my arms. He is twenty-three and a grown man, but in my eyes he is four years old, chasing the dog, a new dog, around the back yard. We sit together until wee small hours of the morning exchanging ideas. We talk about life, about death, about my mother who died last year, about my father, about school, about his dreams and about how I should get off my ass and start dating. I think about bringing another man into my life, but if I do, they have to understand that Z and I have a special relationship that goes way back. Way, way back…. To other lifetimes, I think.