"Mondo" pops up on the screen.
Eleven year old Shammond is calling mom.
"I love you."
"I love you too mom."
"I'm so glad you called."
"Thanks."
"I can't talk very well"
"It's o.k."
Pause
Is he worried about me because I can't talk between a whisper and croak? Has anyone told him that the limitations with my vocal chords is normal at this point in transplant? What if my voice scares him?
"How is school?"
"Fine."
Pause
"How is baseball?"
Fine.
Pause
It is really hurting me to talk. I imagine that any moment Shammond is just going to break into tears and cry and just let down about how hard this all is but he is quiet.
"Marianne and Mark are coming this week (on Island)." I tell him.
"Yea, with the new dog." He's up on that one. For a moment, I am seeing his face smiling and the dog licking him and what it feels like to hold a new pup all squirmy and fun. In my mind I can hear Shammond laughing and I wonder if Marianne knows she has purchased a bundle of healing on four legs.
"I love you Shammond."
"I love you too."
"I miss you."
"I miss you too."
Big quiet pause.
"How is soccer?"
"Fine."
Big pause.
"Your friends?"
"Fine."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
Pause.
"Mom, can I sell the doodle bike?"
"Sure."
"Bye."
So, I'm just thrilled about Shammond calling me. It is 5:15 in the morning and he is calling me before he goes to school on Washington Island and about half an hour past hanging up on the call, I begin to glimpse that Mondo, this little boy eleven years old still thinks I'm mom. He asked me about the big ticket item. "Can I sell my doodle bike?" Why would he have to ask me if I wasn't still mom. I'm not there to tell him to wash his teeth. I can't hug him going out the door. I can't wash his clothes or put a plate of food in front of him or read a book in bed with him or watch him bike down the road but Mondo, through thick and thin still knows I'm mom. He knows more than me.
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