by Jonathan Sage-Martinson

My nephew, Espen, is a miracle.

When this funny, caring nine year-old was two weeks old, the family dog picked him out of his bouncy chair and, as gingerly as she could, carried him in her mouth outside – through the doggy door. His parents found him almost immediately. He was not responsive.

They revived him, but soon learned his kidney, liver and spleen had been badly damaged. They tried to keep hope. But they also had him baptized immediately, using a coffee cup as a baptismal font.

My wife, son and I had just returned home from visiting newborn Espen. I was back at work when my Dad called with the horrible news. I went home numb and told my wife that the precious baby we had held three days before was now lying in a hospital room connected to too many tubes. All we could do was hope and sit by the phone.

My sister-in-law and brother led the way. They were hopeful. They helped us be hopeful.

Within 24 hours, Espen’s liver had ‘knitted’ itself back together. A single surgery two months later, his damaged kidney was working normal again. Espen was fine. A miracle.

For almost ten years, our family has marveled at this story, at Espen’s recovery, at the miracle of him doing everyday nine year-old things.

We had hoped. He had healed.

This fall I got another awful call at work. Espen’s sudden lack of growth and hard to correct eye sight were related – he had a brain tumor.

His amazing parents were immediately focused: get the best medical care possible, gather the family and friends they needed for support, and hold out hope.

Scores of doctor visits followed and surgery approached (delayed until after Halloween at the request of the patient). My wife suggested we get Espen and his family an Empoword care package to help them through surgery and recovery.

We talked about it often, but days and weeks slipped by. As the day before the eight to 12 hour surgery arrived, I found myself close to panic. My brother and sister-in-law seemed so focused and calm. I thought about what the task of preparing my own 10 year-old son for surgery would be like and felt scared and helpless.

That night, as we were finishing a quick meal and heading to another family activity, my wife again reminded me of the care package.

There was no time to waste.

We picked out team Empoword Vitamin T-shirts for the crew: ‘Strength’ for my brother, ‘Faith’ for my sister-in-law, and ‘Brave’ for my little nine year-old nephew.

When my son and I delivered the T-shirts that night, Espen was too busy to notice our delivery, but my sister-in-law said this is exactly what she had been thinking about that day. She said, “I knew we needed the right words to get us through tomorrow. I just didn’t know what they were. Now I do. Thank you.”

I felt a little calmer. It didn’t feel like much, but we had done something. We had helped in some way.

All the next day we held out hope – and watched eagerly for blog updates on Espen and the surgery.

We were so hungry for news, to hear how things were going. Finally, the first blog of the morning appeared. It included a photo of the crew – at 5 a.m. – heading off to the hospital, wearing their ‘Strength’, ‘Faith’, and ‘Brave’.

They had all three and were full of hope.

Over eight hours later, we got another blog post. We held our breath and held out hope.

The surgery was over, Espen’s tumor was gone, his eye sight had been preserved, he was telling jokes to the nurses. My brother ended his post-surgery blog with the announcement that they were ready for a new T-shirt - ‘Gratitude’.

I visited Espen in the hospital a few days later. I knew he was OK. I had heard the technical reports about the surgery. I knew he was telling jokes and doing Madlibs. But visiting him in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit hooked up to so many tubes made my eyes mist over.

I sat next to his bed. He roused himself from his nap and said, “Thanks for that ‘Brave’ T-shirt, Uncle Jon.”

I choked back a “You’re welcome.”