I got to go and see Hazel Grace today.
Not that that's something amazing, because I get to go see her every day, but in reality, it really is kind of amazing because that means that she is there for me to see...
every day.
And I praise God for that.
My tiny Hazel was sleeping on her little tummy today when I got there to see her. She looked so peaceful there with her little legs tucked under her and one hand under her little cheek, that I didn't want to disturb her or wake her by touching her, so I just let her sleep and I just watched.
Yesterday, I got to change her diaper and help the nurse take care of her. It was amazing and nerve-wracking at the same time. She's just so tiny and seems so fragile and I am so afraid of doing something wrong.
But I know I have to practice and become comfortable with who she is because it is who she is and no matter how she grows or how she matures, this is still who she is...
right here...
right now.
A miracle never to be forgotten.
But today, I did not do much of anything but sit and watch her breathe. I found myself not actually being able to believe that she is our baby. Her perfect self is just so tiny. How did I...we...make something like this?
She is divinely orchestrated, Her form and her timing...
breathe in...breathe out.
Finally, I can't resist it anymore. I have to touch.
I must reach in and cradle that tiny downy head.
I slip her little door open and reach in.
One hand, one little head, two hearts beating, hers and mine...
one love.
She remains calm as I cup her head, her softness warm against my fingers,
and she rests on.
When the nurse comes to draw blood for the check they do every 3 hours, the respiratory specialist and the one she reports to are incredulous at the results.
The results are so good...can they be true?
I keep cradling my Hazel Grace and the nurses lower her oxygen levels in response to the good results.
She is doing well. The monitors beep slightly less.
Do you know me, Hazel Grace?
Am I imprinted on you like you are on me?
Do you feel me here? Does my presence calm you like my watching your tiny chest rise and fall calms me?
But I can't stay forever, little Hazel. I have to go.
And I have to leave you here.
But you are in good hands, and I will be back.
Until then, sweet baby, sleep in peace...
your mother and your Father are watching you
because you are fearfully and wonderfully made. (Psalm 139:14)
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
Putting it all in Perspective
Some of you have been asking to see pictures of baby Hazel. And it is not that we are trying to hide her from the world, nor that she has some sort of deformity that we are keeping under wraps,
it is more that we are not sure that people will understand. We do not want the beauty that is our Hazel Grace to be obscured by a photo that is misunderstood.
In talking to people, and actually in some cases, it doesn't seem to matter if they have seen a picture of our precious gift or not, I have realized that most people have no idea the size and form of a 24 week gestational baby.
For which I do not blame anyone.
A baby of this size should be hidden deep within to be knit in the private recesses of a mother's womb, safe under her heart.
But our little Hazel could not wait to meet the world, so meet the world she did.
And I want to help you all gain a little perspective on her. I feel that through my writing, you have all been able to gain a little insight in the her that is her but not so much in the design of her.
Make sense?
So, let me help you.
This...
is not our Hazel Grace. This is a pretty close to newborn full term baby.
This...
is not our Hazel Grace. This baby was born at almost 36 weeks gestation.
This....
is getting closer, but this is not our Hazel Grace. This baby was born at 29 weeks.
And this...
Well, this isn't our Hazel Grace, but this is a baby that was born at 24 weeks, just like her.
To put a size on it all, here's another picture of the same baby...
Tiny. Beautiful, but tiny.
Hazel Grace's diapers are the size of a deck of playing cards...and they are way too big for her. The mask that covers her nose to help her breathe? The size of the tip of your pinky finger.
Hold out your hand, palm up. Hazel Grace would fit in your hand with the back of her head on the end of your middle finger and her feet resting comfortably on your wrist.
Tiny.
But strong.
She is doing well today. She is still on the ventilator, but she is doing well.
And I will put up pictures of our actual Hazel Grace soon.
Soon, but not yet.
My heart can't handle it yet.
it is more that we are not sure that people will understand. We do not want the beauty that is our Hazel Grace to be obscured by a photo that is misunderstood.
In talking to people, and actually in some cases, it doesn't seem to matter if they have seen a picture of our precious gift or not, I have realized that most people have no idea the size and form of a 24 week gestational baby.
For which I do not blame anyone.
A baby of this size should be hidden deep within to be knit in the private recesses of a mother's womb, safe under her heart.
But our little Hazel could not wait to meet the world, so meet the world she did.
And I want to help you all gain a little perspective on her. I feel that through my writing, you have all been able to gain a little insight in the her that is her but not so much in the design of her.
Make sense?
So, let me help you.
This...
is not our Hazel Grace. This is a pretty close to newborn full term baby.
This...
is not our Hazel Grace. This baby was born at almost 36 weeks gestation.
This....
is getting closer, but this is not our Hazel Grace. This baby was born at 29 weeks.
And this...
Well, this isn't our Hazel Grace, but this is a baby that was born at 24 weeks, just like her.
To put a size on it all, here's another picture of the same baby...
Tiny. Beautiful, but tiny.
Hazel Grace's diapers are the size of a deck of playing cards...and they are way too big for her. The mask that covers her nose to help her breathe? The size of the tip of your pinky finger.
Hold out your hand, palm up. Hazel Grace would fit in your hand with the back of her head on the end of your middle finger and her feet resting comfortably on your wrist.
Tiny.
But strong.
She is doing well today. She is still on the ventilator, but she is doing well.
And I will put up pictures of our actual Hazel Grace soon.
Soon, but not yet.
My heart can't handle it yet.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Baby Hazel Meets the Family
Faces pressed to the hard plastic where their little sister lay breathing, you could see their wonder.
Is that my sister? Is that my sister? Is that my sister?
Then the tiny head turns slightly and the little eyes open, and the breath is drawn in anxious anticipation...
Can she see me, Mommy? She's looking at me! Look at her tiny eyes! They're open!
The nurse opens the little doors on the side of her isolette, and Gabriel is the first one to touch his smallest sibling. He's been so anxious to see her and to meet her. His little preschool hands, the hands that grab and climb and push and paint and make messes are guided gently by the patient nurse to cradle baby Hazel's tiny head and little feet.
Her eyes close, and she snuggles in to the touch. His nose is pressed against the isolette between the doors. He's balanced on the edge of that swivel chair eyes never leaving the tiny figure nestled in his hands. His hands are gentle, soft on her tiny fuzzy tennis-ball sized head and her miniature feet with their perfect toenails
I watch from the other side. 'Be gentle,' I breathe, but there's no need. He is the gentlest of the gentle. This sister that he has been longing to see is finally in his hands, and I know the touch is permanently engraved on his heart.
Jo is next. Her hands are sanitized, the nurse guides, and we encourage, but she is tentative. She wants to touch...but not. She barely grazes the soft head and shies away from the waving feet.
Elizabeth stands back, watching. When it is her turn, she reaches in and touches her sister with awe. The long fingers curl around the head and fold the feet in to fetal comfort. Hazel's eyes close again, and if she could, I'm sure she would have been purring.
She's so much smaller than I thought, she whispers. She just so tiny. A perfect little baby, just so tiny!
When it's time to go, Gabriel pushes against me unwilling to leave. But where's Geoffery? He asks. I can't leave if Geoffery's not here to watch her!
We tell him that Geoffery has gone to take a break because he knew that we were coming, and the obliging nurse tells him that she will call Geoffery to come back now that we are leaving. Accuse us of misleading a 3 year old, but I figure if it helps him sleep at night to know that his Geoffery is watching over little Hazel in his absence, then so be it.
He's somewhat comforted, and we leave.
We leave our baby Hazel. We leave her with the imprints of our hands like blessings on her head and on her feet,
and we leave with the imprint of her
deeply etched upon our hearts.
We love you, baby Hazel. You are one of us and we love you.
Is that my sister? Is that my sister? Is that my sister?
Then the tiny head turns slightly and the little eyes open, and the breath is drawn in anxious anticipation...
Can she see me, Mommy? She's looking at me! Look at her tiny eyes! They're open!
The nurse opens the little doors on the side of her isolette, and Gabriel is the first one to touch his smallest sibling. He's been so anxious to see her and to meet her. His little preschool hands, the hands that grab and climb and push and paint and make messes are guided gently by the patient nurse to cradle baby Hazel's tiny head and little feet.
Her eyes close, and she snuggles in to the touch. His nose is pressed against the isolette between the doors. He's balanced on the edge of that swivel chair eyes never leaving the tiny figure nestled in his hands. His hands are gentle, soft on her tiny fuzzy tennis-ball sized head and her miniature feet with their perfect toenails
I watch from the other side. 'Be gentle,' I breathe, but there's no need. He is the gentlest of the gentle. This sister that he has been longing to see is finally in his hands, and I know the touch is permanently engraved on his heart.
Jo is next. Her hands are sanitized, the nurse guides, and we encourage, but she is tentative. She wants to touch...but not. She barely grazes the soft head and shies away from the waving feet.
Elizabeth stands back, watching. When it is her turn, she reaches in and touches her sister with awe. The long fingers curl around the head and fold the feet in to fetal comfort. Hazel's eyes close again, and if she could, I'm sure she would have been purring.
She's so much smaller than I thought, she whispers. She just so tiny. A perfect little baby, just so tiny!
When it's time to go, Gabriel pushes against me unwilling to leave. But where's Geoffery? He asks. I can't leave if Geoffery's not here to watch her!
We tell him that Geoffery has gone to take a break because he knew that we were coming, and the obliging nurse tells him that she will call Geoffery to come back now that we are leaving. Accuse us of misleading a 3 year old, but I figure if it helps him sleep at night to know that his Geoffery is watching over little Hazel in his absence, then so be it.
He's somewhat comforted, and we leave.
We leave our baby Hazel. We leave her with the imprints of our hands like blessings on her head and on her feet,
and we leave with the imprint of her
deeply etched upon our hearts.
We love you, baby Hazel. You are one of us and we love you.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Heavy
I feel heavy.
My steps are heavy and slow. The pain from the gash, from the hole they carved in my flesh to bring baby Hazel to light, to safety, throbs...a tangible reminder of what I have,
and what I have lost.
This was to be our last child, Jimmy's and mine. Baby Hazel was a surprise, and we knew that this was to be the last time I would experience pregnancy and childbirth.
And I intended to savor it.
I am one of those weird ones, I guess. I love being pregnant, and I look forward, in a way, to the pain of labor and the pushing and the searing and the slip sliding baby bloody on my chest.
The wonder.
But I didn't ever get that. And now it's done. Almost from the time that I knew that I was pregnant through the 5 short months that I held Hazel inside me under my heart, I suffered. I never got the swelling belly. I never got the energetic 2nd trimester. I never got the carefree time of being pregnant.
And now it's over. And I'm sad.
No...I'm mad.
Is that selfish? Am I being thoughtless for thinking that way?
Don't get me wrong. I am happy that baby Hazel is out. My womb was a death sentence for both of us. A sentence that would have been carried out in mere hours had she not been taken from me. I know that given the circumstances, there is no better place that she could be,
but why?
I throw that question to heaven, to God. And He catches it and cradles it. He tells me to walk on. He tells me that He has great things in store for me. He has plans to prosper me and not to harm me. Plans to give both me and Hazel hope
and a future (Jer 29:11)
But where, God?
Where is our future? Is our future together? Me and Hazel and Jimmy and the kids?
Or is it plans to take Hazel to Himself?
So I am heavy. My body is heavy. My breasts, filled with milk for one who can't nurse, are heavy.
And my heart is heaviest of all.
As soon as the doors to the NICU open, I can see her isolette straight ahead. My throat tightens and my breath gets caught there.
I need a reminder to breathe almost as much as Hazel does.
Then there is the ritual of the washing of the hands. The clean cool water washing away everything that comes from the outside world. That is followed by the slipping on of a gown lest even our clothes harbor something that would be bad for the babies tucked away in this humming corner of the hospital.
Her bed glows blue from the bililight suspended above. And this time, she is not breathing on her own. Her tiny chest rises and falls in a clicking rhythm dictated by the tubes running down her throat.
Her lips are dry. Her mouth looks parched. My breasts ache, milk let down to flood the vast nothingness that stands between us.
The baby next to my Hazel has gone home. A lusty boy. Congratulations are in order to his parents.
A new baby girl has taken his place.
She cries, angry, when the nurse tends to her. Mom sits in a rocking chair with arms out ready to receive her little one to feed, rock and comfort her. Dad stands by.
The peaceful trio is quickly hidden behind a moving partition that is used to seclude and give comfort to those parents who can hold their children.
But what about those that can't?
There is no rocking chair for me. If I am lucky, I get a swivel desk chair that the nurses use to enter records into the computer.
There is no rocking comfort for me. Who would hold me anyway...me with the empty arms and overflowing heart?
And there is no partition for me. No hiding. While the happy families can hide their joy and celebrate in private, I must wear my grief on my sleeve. There is no hiding the tears slipping down my cheeks, washing the hard plastic that separates me from my heart, but that at the same time, is keeping that heart beating.
And then there is the goodbye. How do you say it? How do you put into simple words that which kills you to even think? How do you turn your back on someone and walk away when you never know if it's going to be the last time?
But how long can you sit on that swivel chair and helplessly watch the tiny life breathe when you have running, jumping, hearty life at home waiting for you, needing you?
When I was preparing for surgery, last Thursday afternoon, when tears quivered and panic threatened, two separate people, my doctor and one friend who just happened to be coming to visit at that time, prayed over me the same prayer.
And this is what it was:
The Lord bless you and keep you.
The Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious to you
The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace
(Number 6:24-26)
So, sweet baby Hazel, turn your face towards His, and may He smile on you and give you peace.
My steps are heavy and slow. The pain from the gash, from the hole they carved in my flesh to bring baby Hazel to light, to safety, throbs...a tangible reminder of what I have,
and what I have lost.
This was to be our last child, Jimmy's and mine. Baby Hazel was a surprise, and we knew that this was to be the last time I would experience pregnancy and childbirth.
And I intended to savor it.
I am one of those weird ones, I guess. I love being pregnant, and I look forward, in a way, to the pain of labor and the pushing and the searing and the slip sliding baby bloody on my chest.
The wonder.
But I didn't ever get that. And now it's done. Almost from the time that I knew that I was pregnant through the 5 short months that I held Hazel inside me under my heart, I suffered. I never got the swelling belly. I never got the energetic 2nd trimester. I never got the carefree time of being pregnant.
And now it's over. And I'm sad.
No...I'm mad.
Is that selfish? Am I being thoughtless for thinking that way?
Don't get me wrong. I am happy that baby Hazel is out. My womb was a death sentence for both of us. A sentence that would have been carried out in mere hours had she not been taken from me. I know that given the circumstances, there is no better place that she could be,
but why?
I throw that question to heaven, to God. And He catches it and cradles it. He tells me to walk on. He tells me that He has great things in store for me. He has plans to prosper me and not to harm me. Plans to give both me and Hazel hope
and a future (Jer 29:11)
But where, God?
Where is our future? Is our future together? Me and Hazel and Jimmy and the kids?
Or is it plans to take Hazel to Himself?
So I am heavy. My body is heavy. My breasts, filled with milk for one who can't nurse, are heavy.
And my heart is heaviest of all.
As soon as the doors to the NICU open, I can see her isolette straight ahead. My throat tightens and my breath gets caught there.
I need a reminder to breathe almost as much as Hazel does.
Then there is the ritual of the washing of the hands. The clean cool water washing away everything that comes from the outside world. That is followed by the slipping on of a gown lest even our clothes harbor something that would be bad for the babies tucked away in this humming corner of the hospital.
Her bed glows blue from the bililight suspended above. And this time, she is not breathing on her own. Her tiny chest rises and falls in a clicking rhythm dictated by the tubes running down her throat.
Her lips are dry. Her mouth looks parched. My breasts ache, milk let down to flood the vast nothingness that stands between us.
The baby next to my Hazel has gone home. A lusty boy. Congratulations are in order to his parents.
A new baby girl has taken his place.
She cries, angry, when the nurse tends to her. Mom sits in a rocking chair with arms out ready to receive her little one to feed, rock and comfort her. Dad stands by.
The peaceful trio is quickly hidden behind a moving partition that is used to seclude and give comfort to those parents who can hold their children.
But what about those that can't?
There is no rocking chair for me. If I am lucky, I get a swivel desk chair that the nurses use to enter records into the computer.
There is no rocking comfort for me. Who would hold me anyway...me with the empty arms and overflowing heart?
And there is no partition for me. No hiding. While the happy families can hide their joy and celebrate in private, I must wear my grief on my sleeve. There is no hiding the tears slipping down my cheeks, washing the hard plastic that separates me from my heart, but that at the same time, is keeping that heart beating.
And then there is the goodbye. How do you say it? How do you put into simple words that which kills you to even think? How do you turn your back on someone and walk away when you never know if it's going to be the last time?
But how long can you sit on that swivel chair and helplessly watch the tiny life breathe when you have running, jumping, hearty life at home waiting for you, needing you?
When I was preparing for surgery, last Thursday afternoon, when tears quivered and panic threatened, two separate people, my doctor and one friend who just happened to be coming to visit at that time, prayed over me the same prayer.
And this is what it was:
The Lord bless you and keep you.
The Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious to you
The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace
(Number 6:24-26)
So, sweet baby Hazel, turn your face towards His, and may He smile on you and give you peace.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
More Than Angels
Of all the kids, it seems that Gabriel, our 3 year old, has had the hardest time dealing with the whole traumatic event in our family that has been Hazel's birth.
A few weeks ago, while I was still home on bedrest, Gabriel informed that he had a cat in his tummy. This cat made him sick sometimes, but not to worry because it would soon come out and he would feel better.
The evening that I got home, he asked me about baby Hazel, and asked me if they cut open my tummy and took her out. Seeing as that's exactly what they did, I said yes.
The next day, Gabriel was super clingy and crying. Finally, he said that his tummy hurt because the cat in there was making it hurt. Later, though, after a nap with mom and dinner, he felt better and informed us all that the doctor had cut open his tummy and taken out his cat. His cat, now named Goeffery, had then ridden his bicycle to the doctors where baby Hazel is and is watching over and taking care of her.
Sweet baby Hazel! Not only does she have a brother who is crazy about her and already protective of her, sight unseen, but she has Geoffery the cat looking out for her...just hanging out there over her isolette...
Geoffery and all the angels.
A few weeks ago, while I was still home on bedrest, Gabriel informed that he had a cat in his tummy. This cat made him sick sometimes, but not to worry because it would soon come out and he would feel better.
The evening that I got home, he asked me about baby Hazel, and asked me if they cut open my tummy and took her out. Seeing as that's exactly what they did, I said yes.
The next day, Gabriel was super clingy and crying. Finally, he said that his tummy hurt because the cat in there was making it hurt. Later, though, after a nap with mom and dinner, he felt better and informed us all that the doctor had cut open his tummy and taken out his cat. His cat, now named Goeffery, had then ridden his bicycle to the doctors where baby Hazel is and is watching over and taking care of her.
Sweet baby Hazel! Not only does she have a brother who is crazy about her and already protective of her, sight unseen, but she has Geoffery the cat looking out for her...just hanging out there over her isolette...
Geoffery and all the angels.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Visiting Hazel Grace
Today's visit with Hazel was absolutely amazing! When we got there, she was snuggled on her side with a tiny cozy blanket was wrapped around her legs. She was sleeping and peaceful, and I was hesitant to disturb her.
Beauty personified.
Then the nurse came and told us that all was well with her. She is tolerating her food (pumped breast milk) well and was increased from 1.5 cc's per 3 hours to 2.3 cc's every three hours.
But the best news was that the brain scan that she had last night revealed no brain bleed!
This is incredible news! It doesn't mean that she won't have any down the road at some point, but it means that right now...today...she is good.
God is good.
But the bestest best part was when the nurse started to check her over. She turned off the bililight - which, by the way, Hazel is down to only one bulb now - and rolled little Hazel to her back. Then she took off her little diva eye mask and as I reached in to hold her tiny hand, she opened her eye and looked at me!
Now go ahead, you party poopers, and tell me she can't see me. Whatever. She looked at me and let me know that she's gonna be alright. She's not going to give up.
She's a fighter.
And she's got the angels on her team.
Beauty personified.
Then the nurse came and told us that all was well with her. She is tolerating her food (pumped breast milk) well and was increased from 1.5 cc's per 3 hours to 2.3 cc's every three hours.
But the best news was that the brain scan that she had last night revealed no brain bleed!
This is incredible news! It doesn't mean that she won't have any down the road at some point, but it means that right now...today...she is good.
God is good.
But the bestest best part was when the nurse started to check her over. She turned off the bililight - which, by the way, Hazel is down to only one bulb now - and rolled little Hazel to her back. Then she took off her little diva eye mask and as I reached in to hold her tiny hand, she opened her eye and looked at me!
Now go ahead, you party poopers, and tell me she can't see me. Whatever. She looked at me and let me know that she's gonna be alright. She's not going to give up.
She's a fighter.
And she's got the angels on her team.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Baby Hazel Cries
Baby Hazel with her fused eyelids and translucent skin has won the hearts of the NICU nurses. Now, I'm not saying that the nurses do not love the other babies just as equally, but I feel that to them, our baby Hazel is a miracle. I know that all babies are miracles, but there is something different between a 35 week miracle and a 24 week miracle.
Other fathers push mothers in wheelchairs to see their babies...to hold them, feed them, rock them and make plans to go home together soon. These babies are small and perfect with their gentle eyes and soft round heads, with their preemie sized diapers and everyday more lusty sounding cries.
While Hazel lies still. Breathing rapidly, chest and stomache rising and falling in the ancient rhythm of life that she is still struggling to grasp. She wears a tiny eyemask as if she's a sleeping diva to protect her still fused eyes from the harshness of the lamp that her isolette is placed under. Her diaper is so small I'm sure they must have bought them at a toy store designed for baby dolls. Her skin is mahogany. It is paper thin and translucent so you can see right through it to every ounce of blood that is coursing through her needle thin veins.
But she is the belle of the ball. There is no talk yet of going home. There is talk of tomorrow and maybe next week, but that's it. There is talk of scans and tests and maybe's and what if's, but it's talk of the heart...from the heart.
Jimmy and I visit, helpless, overwhelmed. Machines whir in every corner and I wonder who I am and how I got here. I see our baby, but can't wrap my mind around the miracle that is her.
My eyes well up helpless and confused when a nurse in all blue with a greying braid long down her back scurries over and gushes to me about our baby.
Oh, my she's so sweet, she says, and I look again into the isolette and see past the machines to the tiny hands and feet waving. My abdomen spontaneously cramps in remembrance of just 2 days ago when those kicks were felt from the inside.
Her grey braid swings gently as she leans over, fighting with the blue-bulbed lamp for a view from above. She's amazing, she says. She turns to look at me and tells me that they are all amazed to hear her cry.
I think back to the haze that was the OR. I see the huge disk lights hanging above my head and the words 'Baby's out' said and repeated through the room like a chant. And I hear a faint bleat. Who let a sheep in here? That doesn't seem very sanitary...but I hear it again and my heart knows it's her.
Yes, I say, I heard her cry when she was born.
Again the swish of the braid. Yes, but I had her last night. She was upset and cried. But when I put my hand in there and cupped her leg like this...she shows me a soft nest of palm...she crossed her little arms over her chest and settled.
Again, the eyes look into mine. Those eyes convey hope. She's strong for such a little one, she says.
Yes, I say around the tightness in my throat as I watch her braid disappear down the aisle of machines.
Yes, she's strong even for a big one like me.
I turn to look one last time then head out. I feel a hand on my arm and turn to see a smiling kind face framed with blonde wisps that have escaped a clip held high on her head. i hope you don't mind, says the blonde nurse. I hope you don't mind that I pray for Hazel. I have it good, you know. I am in good communication with God. So if you don't mind, I'll pray for her. God listens to me.
Of course you can pray, please do. Because right now, that's pretty much all we've got.
Other fathers push mothers in wheelchairs to see their babies...to hold them, feed them, rock them and make plans to go home together soon. These babies are small and perfect with their gentle eyes and soft round heads, with their preemie sized diapers and everyday more lusty sounding cries.
While Hazel lies still. Breathing rapidly, chest and stomache rising and falling in the ancient rhythm of life that she is still struggling to grasp. She wears a tiny eyemask as if she's a sleeping diva to protect her still fused eyes from the harshness of the lamp that her isolette is placed under. Her diaper is so small I'm sure they must have bought them at a toy store designed for baby dolls. Her skin is mahogany. It is paper thin and translucent so you can see right through it to every ounce of blood that is coursing through her needle thin veins.
But she is the belle of the ball. There is no talk yet of going home. There is talk of tomorrow and maybe next week, but that's it. There is talk of scans and tests and maybe's and what if's, but it's talk of the heart...from the heart.
Jimmy and I visit, helpless, overwhelmed. Machines whir in every corner and I wonder who I am and how I got here. I see our baby, but can't wrap my mind around the miracle that is her.
My eyes well up helpless and confused when a nurse in all blue with a greying braid long down her back scurries over and gushes to me about our baby.
Oh, my she's so sweet, she says, and I look again into the isolette and see past the machines to the tiny hands and feet waving. My abdomen spontaneously cramps in remembrance of just 2 days ago when those kicks were felt from the inside.
Her grey braid swings gently as she leans over, fighting with the blue-bulbed lamp for a view from above. She's amazing, she says. She turns to look at me and tells me that they are all amazed to hear her cry.
I think back to the haze that was the OR. I see the huge disk lights hanging above my head and the words 'Baby's out' said and repeated through the room like a chant. And I hear a faint bleat. Who let a sheep in here? That doesn't seem very sanitary...but I hear it again and my heart knows it's her.
Yes, I say, I heard her cry when she was born.
Again the swish of the braid. Yes, but I had her last night. She was upset and cried. But when I put my hand in there and cupped her leg like this...she shows me a soft nest of palm...she crossed her little arms over her chest and settled.
Again, the eyes look into mine. Those eyes convey hope. She's strong for such a little one, she says.
Yes, I say around the tightness in my throat as I watch her braid disappear down the aisle of machines.
Yes, she's strong even for a big one like me.
I turn to look one last time then head out. I feel a hand on my arm and turn to see a smiling kind face framed with blonde wisps that have escaped a clip held high on her head. i hope you don't mind, says the blonde nurse. I hope you don't mind that I pray for Hazel. I have it good, you know. I am in good communication with God. So if you don't mind, I'll pray for her. God listens to me.
Of course you can pray, please do. Because right now, that's pretty much all we've got.
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