What does the future hold?

You look at your child the day he's born and see a miracle. You fall in love with the little person you've only just met, despite what he looks like or how much he's crying or the pain you felt before he was born. You hold him in your arms, kiss his head, and stare in quiet amazement at what you've created. Perfect.

Then you hear, "This isn't normal." Your world screeches to a halt in one quick moment.

That was my experience when Gabe was born. Little did I know that his journey over the last nearly 7 years was going to be so long and difficult. And it's far from over. You'd never know by spending time with him, talking to him, that anything was different. But he knows. I know. Five surgeries done, one lurking around the corner, and God knows how many more.

I've seen my son sedated, medicated, on IVs, with catheters and bandages. I've seen my son scared. In pain. I've seen my son in pain. He knows what surgery means for him but he doesn't know, yet, about the sixth.

How do I tell him that just 10 months after his last surgery that he'll undergo a major one. One with a long hospital stay and medicine that will numb his body and a huge incision on his little belly. How do I tell him that he won't be able to run and play and wrestle and ride his bike for 3 months? How do I tell him that he may never be "normal"?