A standard length stretcher is carefully, yet swiftly, pulled from the helicopter with flight nurses ducking their heads and holding the hair out of their faces from the fierce winds forced downward and swirling around.
Ten stories high on the rooftop - the cement landing pad is blood red.
On top of that stretcher, guarded by Him, kept safe by people I'll never thank or get the honor to meet, is a small plastic box.
In that clear container, lay my day old son - hooked to an incubator, fighting for his life.
I am still 2 hours away and fighting to get to him.
On that building, ten stories high, on that red cement, with chopper blades slicing the frigid December winds sat my son....
Until last night, I'd never been able to picture this part of Chase's story, but while getting driving directions using a satellite map for a trip to Birmingham, a bright red square with a bold white cross caught my eye.
Overwhelmed with emotion, that now small tear in my heart burned for a minute and I cried. The cross sparked a memory of the same cross I wear around my neck. I clasp my hands tightly, pulled them close to my wet, salty face and prayed. I thanked Him for the boys - for Chase's treatments, doctors, nurses and loving support and for the reminder of how much I have to be thankful for.
I remembered that cold December morning on the roof top, 10 stories high, that I never got to see.