It’s scary, it’s rare — oh yeah, there are only a few hundred people in the world that have this condition

The yellow marker on the floor stares at me, begging me to cover it so it doesn’t dry out.

But I can’t. I’ve finally lain down on the couch, and I just can’t muster up the energy to crouch down and search for the cover.

My eyes begin to close, and I think back to a few months ago, when the doctor at the hospital told me my newborn had failed his hearing screening. He said it’s common enough, it’s not a major issue, even though it feels like it is. My mind jumps to crazy places, in the way only people with secret anxieties and worries can identify with. What if he can’t hear his mother’s voice? His father’s words?

I know I’m exaggerating because the doctor says he can hear. He can hear my voice; he can hear my husband’s. He can hear us telling him we love him. But it feels like there’s a huge rock on my chest that can’t be moved off until all the follow-up appointments are done.

He’s so perfect, my little baby, and I want the doctors to say he’s okay. That everything is fine, and I don’t have to worry or think, make more phone calls or book more appointments. I want them to say that all this rushing back and forth to and from doctors, trying to get urine samples (who knew it could be so hard to get that from a newborn?), and dealing with insurance issues is just a bad dream.

It’s all over. Everything is okay.

Or so we thought.

Really, it was the quiet before the storm.