October 23, 2012
We should be grateful to live in a country where elections end in handshakes, not bomb blasts
We stood and watched our boy lying in nothing but a diaper. An IV plugged into his vein, the tube taped tightly on top of his hand. Another tube ran through his mouth and into his stomach, regulating his food intake. Though he was just a few hours old, a clear plastic box separated him from his mother and me. Except for the first few moments after he was born, it was more than a day before we could touch him. During those early days, we watched his tiny frame rock up and down as his lungs churned the oxygen from the air. The skin below the base of his sternum sagged, concave, a sign of the distress below the surface. Soon he'd sport a crimped clear tube strapped over his nose, constantly blowing air in to keep his lungs inflated.