Confession: I wrote this poem over nine years ago, when the website was just a baby, like my son, Vinny.
When he was only weeks old, Vinny had to fight a dangerous heart condition head-on. While I was at a work function, my wife texted me that she was in an ambulance with our son. His face had gone blue, and the Children’s Hospital clinic in Ladue didn’t want to wait. My best friend, Eric Moore, drove like Jason Bourne to get me back to my car, and I ignored about every traffic law and signal in getting to Kingshighway Boulevard, and down to the main St. Louis Children’s Hospital.
The heart condition was Wolff-Parkinson-White syndrome, and the main henchman for W-P-W is SVT, or superventricular tachycardia. While you untie your tongue, I’ll just tell you that it can cause a very rapid heartbeat, and can kill you if untreated. For a baby, it’s like a cartoon turning into a nightmare. You have too much traffic around your heart, way too much action.
My son beat it though. Shortly after overcoming that, he also beat a nasty stomach ailment. All before he could see 2012 and turn a full four months old. But painful memories get stored just like the golden ones. You don’t forget seeing 20-30 doctors and nurses swarming around your very sick child in an incredibly small operating room. You don’t forget his heart actually stopping for a matter of seconds. You don’t forget doctors applying electric shock to your kid’s chest, in order to save his life.
It was those doctors and nurses, along with the toughness and resilience of the Buffa gene, that pulled him through. So, for a poem contest at work, I wrote something about their diligence and hard work in helping my son heal. I’ve only written one official poem in my life, and this is it. Please enjoy and keep your comments gentle with regards to how bad it is.
Fluids run through his body like security teams/putting out
dangerous fires wherever they seem
All a father can do is sit there and wonder/Is this happening to my child?
The kid climbs into the ring one more time/determined to destroy whatever lies in his way
The heart rate rises/the saints come running into the room in all shapes and sizes
The tough little fella looks around/struggling to make a leap over this tall medical bound
I look deep into his eyes like a broke angel/I pledge/be calm my child and this too shall pass
What lies in his future/A father cannot know
The mother stands near/shaking like a deer
Experiences don’t yield words at first, but through emotions they grow at once
Thanks for reading. It’s never too late to heal. Oh, my poem won that competition.