I just wrote pages of a story that I can’t post because my mind raced in a sentence that never ended but ran the length of hospital corridors and a mother's love.
The story of Elias’s birth.
As my words circled the fear, my body told the story better, by starting to shake.
To ground myself in living details.
Instead of my rambling mind, I'll leave you with a short scene, pictures, and
words of gratitude:
I wake up from anesthesia in a surgery recovery room with a doctor by my side:
“Where’s my baby?”
“He’s in the New Born Intensive Care Unit.”
I look for my husband. “Where’s Nick?”
“He’s, with the baby.”
“Is he Ok?”
The woman in blue with dark brown eyes looks into mine and says: “He’s alive—but I can’t tell you if he’s going to survive.”
To Dr. Parish: Thank you for telling me the truth--as you saw and felt it-- the night my son arrived.
Thank you for not hiding it in medical terms. Thank you for not dressing it in false hope.
Thank you for delivering only the core that everything else is based on:
But I can’t tell you
If he's going to survive
No one can
Oh, but we can love each other in the process.