A little back story...

Those calls that you don't want to receive about your child are as bad as you think. Twenty three years ago, my mom called my dorm room and asked to talk to my roommate. Her face contorted from a look of confusion progressing into horror until I grabbed the phone from her to let her out of her misery. But then it was my turn:

There was a car accident... he didn't make it... he's gone.

All I could do was deny her words and melt into convulsing tears on the bed. My brother had been at a friend's house when they should have been at school. They took out the fancy Mercedes to find a dog. The driver of the car, another 16-year-old kid, lost control and wrapped the vehicle around a palm tree. It was a life-defining moment for our family.

When my son was born, it was as if a small and vital piece of my heart started beating outside of my chest. First he was crying, then walking and talking, eventually riding bikes and going to school. Each day, love for this small boy who bears such a striking resemblance to his uncle shaped my experience of that phone call. When my son was hit by a car, it was my turn. The night at the hospital, I needed my mom, and yet it couldn't be my mom. Not this time, not about this. 

It took a whole day before I mustered the courage to call her. 

Hi, got a sec? Can you step away and sit down? / Yea, what's going on? / He's ok... He's ok. / What happened? / Mom, it's Holden and he's ok. / What happened? / He's hurt, but he's going to be ok.  / Was it a car? / He's got a broken leg and shoulder. He's home./ You keep saying he's going to be ok, what happened? / I'm going to keep saying he's ok because he is going to be ok, and I need to keep saying it. / Ok.

He's going to be ok. He's injured, and he's going to be ok.