In the instant that Little Bird's nurse said those nine little words, I froze. Rendered completely speechless for what seemed like an eternity. MFH spoke up and declared, "Yes!". I'm still not sure if that was his reply to her question, or a release of the emotion of the moment. Before I could utter a syllable, a respiratory technician appeared out of nowhere. No, really. I now refer to her specifically as "Our Fairy Godmother", because I still don't know where she came from, yet so quickly. Both Ladies began to explain to Little Bird what they were doing, as they were doing it. I sat down in the rocking chair and watched with amazement as they so seamlessly orchestrated what surely should have been a very complicated maneuver. So many tubes and wires, all precisely positioned without skipping a beat. And suddenly, there we were.
Both of us nervous, we studied each other for the longest time. Me, because I was certain she was going to cry, unable to recognize me. Her, because she likely thought she was going to be poked with another needle, another procedure. I didn't want her to feel afraid, so I kissed her. Again, and again, and again. Each one even sweeter than the last. I smelled her. Her essence, not of iodine or antibacterial anything, but of life. She smells brand new. Just like heaven. One breathe absolved all of the heartache and worry of the last three and a half months.
She didn't cry. In fact, she stayed awake and alert the entire time. It's believed that the eyes are the doorway into a person's soul. If that's true, hers is flawless. And very, very old. She's been here before, I know she has. Something about the way she looked at me seemed incredibly familiar. Two deep blue pools that are absolutely mesmerizing. She did try her best to distract me from noticing her attempt to free her hands from the swaddle of her blankets. And she is very strong, more than you would imagine a seven and a half pound baby to be. Breaking out of a triple wrap is a skill she's mastered. Convincing me that she won't pull the breathing tube out? Not so much.
For a hundred and five days, I feared that our bond was lost before it ever even got a chance to build. And when you think about it, really, what did I know about her? I knew her blood type. I knew the amount of pressure she requires on the ventilator. I knew her weight. I knew nothing more than any medical professional who has been responsible for her care during the past fifteen weeks. Or, so I thought. Everyone reassured me that we wouldn't forget. That we would be able to pick each other out of a sea of people, no matter how much time had passed. After a while, I thought they were wrong. But they weren't. I was. After a little while, she made a facial expression. I still don't understand how or why, but my instincts were right when I instantly and correctly distinguished it to mean that she wanted her binky. That might sound trivial, but for us, it was such a big deal.
The entire experience was nothing short of miraculous. As we sat there, rocking and staring, I thought about everything and everyone that led us to that day. I thought about the surgeon, who successfully inserted the trach. I thought about the hundreds of nurses, who've cared for her every single day. I thought about Dr. H., who discovered and treated the NEC and the PDA in the nick of time. I thought about everyone who ever prayed for her to get this far. And I thought about the team of paramedics who delivered her, and who gave her such a strong, fighting chance. Every single person that has touched her life. All of that effort. All of that energy. It all came together in one incredible, unforgettably beautiful moment. A magnificent butterfly effect. I will never forget it.
share on: facebook
No comments:
Post a Comment