Rion Tyrell Jackson is a little gift from God. He is also my son, my youngest child.
I cannot imagine my life without him.
When he was born six short years ago, on a bright sunny June afternoon, doctors didn't hold out much hope for him. You see, he was born four months too early, after I fell in the grocery store. My water broke; I soon went into labor. I was terrified; my husband was even more so as he called for the paramedics.
I remember thinking: "It's too soon!! It's too soon!! He can't come just yet!! It's way too early for him to be born!!"
The paramedics got to the store within moments after my husband called. They gently put me on a wheeled stretcher bed, gently strapped me on (so I wouldn't fall off; at that particular time, I didn't care), and wheeled me to the back end of the ambulance, where they soon loaded me in. I was in terrible pain; each little movment caused wave after wave of mind-numbing pain to sear through my belly.
My little baby was in a hurry to be born. He was born before the ambulance even made it to the hospital. I saw this tiny, bloody, grey thing emerge from between my legs; even after repeated instructions from the paramedics not to push, I couldn't help it. My baby wanted out. That's when I passed out.
I don't remember anything until I woke up later. I was in a hospital room, doctors and nurses (plus one worried husband) looking down at me. An IV tube was in my arm; I was hooked up to oxygen and to a heart monitor. My husband had tears on his face. I feared the worst until he said: "Congratulations, Mama! A boy! We have a beautiful little baby boy--and whoa, he is little, too! A tiny peanut!!"
We named our baby Rion Tyrell, Rion after my brother and Tyrell because I just liked the name.
Rion Tyrell, as I found out from doctors and nurses, was in the Nick-you (NICU, which stands for Neonatal Intensive Care Unit), fighting for every ounce of his little life. He weighed only 10 ounces at birth, less than a can of soda pop. He was incredibly tiny, probably one of the smallest babies ever born at this hospital, the doctor said.
The doctor didn't hold out much hope for little Rion; he had a very high chance of dying, either from underdeveloped lungs, a massive infection, or any other number of medical complications.
If he didn't die, he would, more than likely, be left severely disabled for the rest of his life. Blind. Deaf. Brain damaged. Maybe have physical disabilities like cerebral palsy.
The news was shattering to my spirit. This was when I began to pray to God, asking God to please spare my little peanut, to let him live, without any problems. I didn't think I could handle the demands of parenting a handicapped child.
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Flash forward six years. This tiny peanut is now a small six-year-old with a headful of curly, black hair, a full-cheeked, round face the color of coffee with milk, a snub nose, a ready smile, and a sturdy little-boy body. He is incredibly beautiful; he looks like a miniature carbon copy of his daddy, Tatum.
Rion is handicapped; it hasn't however, stopped him, not in the very least. He has cerebral palsy. He walks with the aid of crutches clamped to his elbows and braces on his legs: his crutches are fire-engine red, and his braces match the crutches.
He is incredibly bright: so much, in fact, he is in the GT (Gifted/Talented) program at his school, even though he is only in the first grade!
Besides the cerebral palsy, he also has vision problems. He wears glasses. Other than that (plus being the size of a three-to-four-year-old child), Rion is ahead developmentally, way ahead of his peers.
He is absolutely perfect in my eyes. And he is mine. My little Miracle Man. My little God-given gift.
I cannot imagine my world without him. He is a living testament to the power of the human spirit. Rion Tyrell. Yes, that's my little baby, for whom doctors had no hope!
If you don't believe in miracles, all you have to do is look at my little guy because he IS a miracle!
