I remember

I remember your face before it was covered with tubes and wires.

I remember not knowing I wouldn’t see it that way again for months.

I remember scrubbing in every day, over and over again. How the seasons changed and my hands chapped, reminding me of where I’d just left my heart and where I’d go back to retrieve it day after day.

I remember hating the phone, for different reasons that we all do now. Waking up each morning in a house where you should be, waiting for a NICU nurse to pick up the line and tell me everything was okay. That you had made it through another night.

I remember short carrides to the hospital that seemed so long. Levels that were too low or too high. Messages saying we could finally hold you to our chests or you might be able to tolerate a sponge bath.

I remember getting there only to find out I couldn’t. Maybe the next day if there were no more setbacks.

I remember the humming and the beeping and feeling that no one could get to your side fast enough when they needed to, not the nurses, not the doctors, not me.

I remember I couldn’t do anything even if I did get to you first–just watch. Just hope.

I remember abnormal everything. Failed tests, concerning labs, scans of everything, monitors constantly reminding us why you needed to be there even though I dreamt of whisking you away every other moment.

I remember the first time I signed for your blood transfusion. The weight of that decision and how it became routine after that. I signed and signed again without a thought. Just a silent thank you to those blood drives that held much less weight in the past.

I remember the gains. But the setbacks are imprinted in my core. Approaching your isolette with apprehension and my heart sinking next to it when more tubes or wires or one more device sat between us.

I remember willing you to everything. To suck, swallow and breathe. To maintain your body temperature. To tolerate decreased oxygen support and the removal of feeding tubes. For you to maybe know who I was even though I couldn’t do much more than will you to survive.

I remember December. The thought that I could not do Christmas this way. A handful of holidays had come and gone but not this one. My heart was so tired.

I remember the phone call that finally came. Setting a carseat next to your isolette and still being afraid to picture you inside it.

I remember how you sunk in that carseat. Supporting your head and your neck as you took up the tiniest spot in that little seat.

I remember talking your dad through that carride home, oxygen tanks at my feet. Yes you were breathing. Your eyes were open sometimes. And yes maybe I missed those monitors too, the ones that told us you were okay right that very second.

I remember you finally being mine. Months after you greeted this world, I could finally be your mom.

I was. I always was. But my life with you, the one I was afraid to dream of inside those NICU walls, began that day we walked out of that space and into our own.

I remember. I remember you tiny and fragile and so so strong.

I always will.

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