Micah is nine today. We brought home a chubby baby (he was 9 pounds, 9 ounces at birth) and two days later he weighed seven pounds and was being loaded into a helicopter for transport to the nearest children’s hospital. This upcoming month has memories around every corner. The Fazoli’s I pretended to eat at before he was transported to another hospital- it was across a parking lot from a nursery with a rapturous display of flowers. The flowers seemed like an assault with my child laying in a warmer, only his heart beating without assistance. Throughout the night, machines and medication had taken over everything else. Standing in front of a doctor who said a bunch of words we didn’t understand as he handed us a stack of paperwork. Being snuck into the intensive care during a surgery because they were loading him onto the ambulance and wanted us to see him one more time. Signing papers for him to go on dialysis after going over the risks. Large risks but we signed anyway because there wasn’t really a choice. Standing at his bed, rubbing his hair, wondering if he would ever come out of the coma. I probably won’t bring it up much here over the next month, but it will replay in my heart. I’ll stand in that hallway where a nurse told us there was nothing they could do for him. I know because I always do. He’s a gift I didn’t think we were going to get to keep. I don’t cry a lot, but I always cry when I talk about this. His birthday is a reminder of miracles. I didn’t think we would bring him home again; nine feels like victory.