That Thursday morning in September started like any other—until it didn’t. I went to wake up Bryson, my 7-year-old, for school, and right away, something felt off. He wasn’t his usual self, and though his vocabulary was still limited, he didn’t need words to show it. He slowly climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom, and when he returned, he suddenly threw up on his bedroom floor. Bryson rarely got sick like this; in fact, vomiting wasn’t something he’d ever really dealt with. The boy had endured so much in his short life, but this was new.
As the day wore on, he stayed curled up on the couch, refusing to eat or drink. I watched him growing weaker, knowing deep down that something wasn’t right but hoping it might be just a passing flu bug. When the night came, he still hadn’t improved, and I lay on the couch beside him, listening to his shallow breathing. Early Friday morning, I gently encouraged him to try and get up to go to the bathroom, but he refused. I knew then it was time to act.
With my mom’s help to watch my other boys, I called the doctor and was told to bring him in immediately. We managed to get Bryson into the car and headed straight to the doctor. I don’t remember much about the appointment itself, but one exchange has stayed with me. As I was listing Bryson’s symptoms, the doctor said, “I don’t think it’s appendicitis; he’s not in enough pain.” I was taken aback. We’d always known Bryson had a high pain threshold, which was both a blessing and a curse, but in that moment, I realized how much he must be suffering without being able to express it.
When the doctor suggested we wait, I knew I couldn’t just sit by and watch. I insisted we do further testing. After some reluctance, the doctor finally agreed to an X-ray. And sure enough, as soon as the images were reviewed, everything changed. They rushed Bryson to be admitted, and he was prepped for surgery. His appendix was on the verge of bursting.
That night, Bryson underwent emergency surgery. I can’t help but think of the “what ifs.” What if I hadn’t pushed for that extra test? What if I’d simply accepted the doctor’s initial assessment? It was a stark reminder of something I’d believed all along but had been cemented through this experience: as mothers, we know. We carry an intuition that goes beyond words or reason—a deep, fierce knowing that demands we listen, no matter what anyone else says.
To all the moms out there, especially the new ones: trust your instincts. Don’t be afraid to push for answers, to ask, to advocate. We carried our babies within us for nine months, feeling every heartbeat and kick. And Mama, you know.
