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href="http://www.sultryrose.net">SultryRose's Signatures In room G215, he continues to get worse as my sister watches his monitors alarm. His pulse ox is 62% on 1 1/2 liters of O2, his heart races at 200 beats per minute, then slows to close to nothing with exhaustion as he strains to eat. His hands and feet, once pink, now remain blue. Hang on, Trenton Michael Arnold, you are my special baby boy. Aunt Lori used to kiss your cute little feet in intensive care after you were born, because it was the only place on your little body not covered with lines. And you are my sweet boy who to this day stretches your little feet to me to have them kissed still. I used to be the only one who could put you to sleep. Of all my nieces and nephews, you hold the most special place in my heart. It is time now for your third open heart surgery if they can get you stable. It's happening so fast, and we weren't ready. I told Morgan this morning, and her eyes welled up with tears as she dropped to her knees at the foot of my bed and started to pray. We love you, Trenty. You have been so strong, God's little miracle. The heart surgeons never believed that you, little mack truck of a boy, had a hypoplastic left heart. You have been all of ours' miracle baby. Hang in there, Trenty. Aunt Lori loves you. Don't fail us now. I have to believe God won't take you, not after all this. You are our hope with your blue heaven eyes and your angel-blonde hair. May God's hands work through your surgeons to bring you back to us, a little boy with an intricately-laced heart. Stay strong, angel. We love you. Lori Beal Vote for this poem
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