The conversation then turned to our butts and cellulite and all the wonderful bodily flaws that come with age and Oreos. That's just the kind of friendship we have.
And then... BAM!
Out of nowhere, our lighthearted conversation changed.
Because I was sitting at the doctor's office while Gus got a sports physical. The doctor listened to his heart, frowned, listened some more, had him lie down, frowned a little more, and then invited me over to the examination table.
"He's got a murmur."
Umm, no he doesn't. He's seen a million doctors, my Gus. Yes, his lungs are battered and bruised, but his heart? Big and expansive and perfectly functional.
"Has anyone ever mentioned it before?"
Umm. No. NO.
She then gave me her stethoscope, positioned it over his skinny, scarred chest and told me what to listen for.
And I heard what she described.
She looked at me apologetically.
"I know this isn't what you wanted to hear, and I'm sure everything is fine. Most heart murmurs are perfectly normal. But I can't release him to play until he has an echocardiogram."
She then went on to explain what might be happening. And her explanation included words like "regurgitation" and "ventricle," but my brain was still filled with the lub-dub sound of Gus's kind and sensitive heart.
What I do know and understand is that we're going to Peyton Manning Children's Hospital next Wednesday. Back to whence we began. But I refuse to proceed with fear. I am choosing to believe that all is well, that his little heart is simply overflowing with love and happiness, that it's working overtime to support those gangly limbs and that larger-than-life, toothy grin.
And when we walk out of Door 4 on Wednesday morning with a clean bill of health, I'll call Jody and we'll resume our butt talk.
"All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well." Yes, Julian of Norwich.
Yes.
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