He is so healthy now, so vibrant and strong, and it's difficult to in a way to see that. Only, I suppose, because I know how he'll look post-surgery - bloated, purple, comatose, and gravely ill, unnaturally still, and silent. And I fooled myself about the respirator you know, he'll be on it after the surgery, because they'll keep him alive artificially for 10 hours while they repair his heart, they'll work his lungs and circulate his blood and only thanks to him will he be in that state of undead and only thanks to them will he be alive at all.
One minute I will see him looking so perfect. Then I will hand him over to some masked nurse whose eyes will be sadly smiling, and the next time I see him, he'll be held together with a few stitches and prayers - fighting for his life. That's when you tell him you love him, and say goodbye, just in case. And if he makes it through the first 24 hours, we'll start that count again. And if he makes it through the first 48, we can hope again.
And maybe that's why I find myself looking at the other babies and feeling for their parents. Because in a week or two or maybe even three, my son will be in far worse shape.