An onslaught of memories...

As I walked around the block, I steadied my breathing. "In through your nose, out of your mouth," I told myself. I could feel my heart-rate increasing and the tears threatening to over-spill. "Not now, Amanda. You gotta do this." The intimidating building loomed in front of me - a place of healing, a place of hope. Unfortunately, for me, healing and hope were not the feelings that filled me as I approached Akron Children's Hospital this morning.

The last time I stepped through the giant automatic revolving doors on Bowery Street and held onto the handle of the two-story escalator was almost exactly four years ago - when my two-year-old son spent six days under observation. He wasn't walking, he had unexplained pitekial hemorrhaging on his face, and the doctors had no idea what was wrong. Two months later, he was dead from a rare heart condition called Myocarditis, an inflammation of the myocardium, the middle layer of the heart wall, usually caused by a viral infection. The viral infection - whatever made him stop walking and caused the pitekial hemorrhaging. The viral infection they sent us home with saying that there's nothing wrong and it would work it's way out of his system and he'd be fine. No need to worry. Obviously, they were wrong. And, today, I had to face the same room we spent nearly a week in, some of the same nurses and doctors, and the same building.

I rode the two-story escalator to the main lobby with the thought of turning around when I reached the top and riding it back down, walking through the huge revolving door, and back out onto Bowery Street. But I knew that there is a family that I care deeply about up on the Seventh Floor of this building. I needed to toughen up and take the elevator.

Today, my little "nephew" was admitted into Akron Children's Hospital due to respiratory problems he's been having over the past few days. As the elevator climbed the seven floors to his room, I braced myself for the onslaught of memories that would pour into me when I exited the elevator. Sure enough, as soon as the doors opened, it seemed like last week that I was there with my own sick child, not four years ago.

The woman at the information desk was kind enough to give me Lee's room number. My knees nearly buckled when she wrote the room number down on my visitor's badge - the same room Ayden called "da baby's room" for six days. "What arethe chances," I thought. "Of all the rooms in this gargantuan hospital, Lee would be in the same room?!" I don't really remember walking down to room 7232. I didn't need to look at the signs telling you which rooms were in which sections - I knew. I'd walked this course dozens of times during that week. With Ayden. Without Ayden. Crying. Anxious. Pissed. Melencholy. You name it. I felt it.

Today, though, I couldn't do that. I had to separate myself from those emotions that I felt those years ago and be strong enough to hold the hand of my best friend who was facing the raw emotions that I had felt. As I approached the end of the hallway, knowing full well that if I took a few more steps past the room, I'd find vending machines and a laundry area, I took a deep breath, paused and thought of my son, as I do quite frequently. I asked him to keep me strong for the baby in "da baby's room." "He's real sick," I told him. "He needs to get all better." And with that last longing picture of my child's beautiful face in my head, I walked into room 7232.