A little after 11 p.m., my cell phone rang and startled me awake.
“Mrs. Barbosa?” an unfamiliar voice asked on the other end.
“Yes, this is Mrs. Barbosa,” I answered, still groggy from sleep.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but there’s been an accident involving your son. We’re not sure yet whether we’ll transport him by ambulance or airlift him, but you need to head to the hospital immediately.”
I was disoriented, trying to process his words, but I managed to ask the only question that mattered. “Is he going to be okay?”
There was a pause—a pause that felt endless. Finally, he said, “He’s going to have a long road ahead of him.”
That was all I needed to hear. Relief washed over me. A long road meant he would live. A long road meant mom kisses, home‑cooked meals, and recovery. I hung up the phone and quickly explained everything to Chris, who had woken up to the sound of my voice.
Chris reassured me that everything was going to be okay, and I believed him. I felt hopeful—strangely calm, not worried at all. That may sound odd, but just three months earlier, Christiano had been hit and run over by a car while riding his bike. When I arrived at the hospital then, he was completely fine—laughing, chatting with nurses, walking away without a single injury. A miracle. I expected nothing less this time. The words “long road” didn’t scare me. I assumed maybe road rash or a broken bone. I fully expected to bring my boy home that night. I never imagined what was truly waiting for us.
We arrived at the hospital before Christiano did. Sitting in the waiting room, I grew anxious. Why was it taking so long? Did we come to the wrong hospital? Was he already there and no one knew? About ten minutes later, a police officer approached us holding a Ziploc bag with Christiano’s belongings—his watch, wallet, and cell phone, all intact.
I asked again how my son was doing. The officer avoided my eyes and repeated the same words: “He’s got a long road ahead.”
When I asked when we could see him, he said a doctor would come get us shortly. Soon after, a woman approached and asked us to follow her. She led us into a tiny private room, no bigger than a walk‑in closet, and introduced herself as a trauma specialist. Something felt different this time. Why weren’t we being taken straight to our son? Where were the doctors? When she asked if we had questions, we both said we just wanted to see Christiano. She promised we would—very soon.
A female doctor came in next and sat down across from us. “Your son has been in a very serious accident,” she said gently. “There has been trauma to his brain.”
We stared at her, almost waiting for her to fix it. She explained that when Christiano arrived, he was coughing—a good sign, because it meant his brain was still communicating. I blurted out, “Praise God!”
She smiled and said, “Praise God is right. Are you Christians?”
We said yes, and she told us she was too—and that she would fight with us in prayer. I was certain our miracle was about to unfold. When she left, she promised she’d be back.
Chris took my hands and looked me in the eyes. “Honey, this is what we’ve been trained for our entire Christian lives. He’s going to make it. He’s going to live. This will be a miracle.”
Then the second doctor came in—and everything changed.
His demeanor was cold, his tone blunt. His report was entirely different. He said Christiano had no chance of recovery. Not only was there bleeding on his brain, but his brain stem had been crushed. He repeated the words “unsurvivable injury” again and again.
I asked where the other doctor was, desperate for her hope, but he didn’t answer. I argued with him, almost laughing in disbelief. “You don’t know my God,” I said. “My son is going to recover.”
I’m sure he chalked it up to denial. When he left, Chris and I prayed harder than ever. All I could think was, He has so much life left to live. His story isn’t over.
Finally, a nurse came to take us to see our boy. As we walked down the long hallway, my heart dropped—I realized he was in the same room he had been in three months earlier. Memories flooded back of laughter and healing. But what I saw this time was nothing like before.
Christiano was unrecognizable. My sweet firstborn—once so vibrant and full of life—lay motionless, tubes covering his body. I could barely see his face, except for his strong chin with peach fuzz whiskers. Blood poured from his mouth, endlessly. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever witnessed.
Over the next two hours, his condition worsened rapidly. There was no detectable brain activity. He flatlined several times. Doctors told me they were only prolonging the inevitable. They began asking about organ donation, even suggesting I was ruining his chances by keeping him alive.
In that moment, I couldn’t care less about anything but my son. Chris never left Christiano’s side. He wiped the blood from his mouth again and again. I couldn’t look at his face for long, so I rubbed his feet instead. One of my deepest regrets is not lying beside him, feeling his heartbeat next to mine.
I prayed desperate prayers.
“God, take me instead.”
“God, bring him back for the kids.”
“God, I’ll share this miracle everywhere.”
None of it worked.
By the time I returned with the kids around 6 a.m., Chris pulled me aside. “They’ve revived him six times,” he said quietly. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Each child went in to say goodbye. I think they knew, too. When the last sibling left the room, Christiano took his final breath. My heart shattered as I watched my children say goodbye to their brother.
How do you leave your child behind and walk forward? So much of me stayed with him that day. I truly didn’t think I would survive.
The days and weeks that followed were a blur. My home was filled with people, yet I felt completely empty. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I wanted to die—but my other children needed me. The words “unsurvivable injury” echoed endlessly in my mind. I believed I might die from the pain itself.
Breathing felt heavy. Living felt impossible. I had to talk myself into surviving. I truly believed child loss could not be survived—at least not by me.
I had dreamed of Christiano’s future—marriage, children, purpose. Instead, I sat frozen on the couch as denial, anger, guilt, and fear washed over me. Grieving mom guilt is suffocating.
I withdrew from people, except Christiano’s friends. I needed them close. They carried pieces of him with them. They shared memories, dreams, stories. Even now, they still message me when they think of him.
I never thought I’d survive—not a day, not a year. Yet here I am, six years later, by the grace of God. I survived the unsurvivable.
There were decisions no parent should ever face—burial, obituary, casket, songs. I wanted to ask what he wanted for dinner. I wanted him planning his future, not his funeral.
I still don’t understand why this happened. I may never. We live in a broken world. Some questions have no answers.
After days of anger, God whispered to me, “Sweet child, do not bring me down to a level you can understand.” And somehow, that was enough. God was still good. He still is.
I wish my story were different.
But even if not—God is still good.
