Crying is weird. Some people cry at the tragic end of epic
movies, and some people cry when they’re extremely happy. I don’t generally cry
at predictably sentimental moments like those. It’s the unexpected moments that
catch me unawares, not those that I can prepare for, mustering any form of
strength I might need. I didn’t cry when they took you from my arms and walked
down the hall to the operating room. I told you to be strong and brave and that
I’d see you in just a minute and laughed that you were interested in the song
on the nurse’s iphone. I didn’t cry during surgery when I felt so far away from
you (though I sat on the wall closest to your operating room and only budged to
pump and pee). And I didn’t cry when I first got to see you again. But I did
cry.
I cried on Wednesday morning before they came to take you
for surgery.
There were about 10 minutes just before they took back where
it was just the three of us. You weren’t allowed to nurse or eat anything all
night, and you were hungry and tired and confused. We’d seen all the doctors
and answered all the questions and signed all papers, and we were just waiting.
We joked about running out the door with you. You went back and forth to Daddy
and me, and we prayed, mostly with our hearts because the words had all been
said. We kissed your head and told you how beautiful you were. A few tears may
have slipped out.
I cried on Thursday night for your pain.
I was giddy when we finally saw you after surgery. You slept
most of Wednesday night and Thursday, and everyone kept commenting on how well
you were doing, not agitated or in pain. We rejoiced when the breathing tube
came out, when the catheter came out, and when you kept down clear liquids. The
swelling increased Thursday night though, and you cried out in pain, arching
your back. Nurses gave you pain meds, and we worked to get you in more
comfortable positions. I didn’t sleep, but just whispered in your ear and
rubbed your arm. I knew it was temporary, but felt helpless to do anything for
you.
I cried Friday morning when they let me hold you for the
first time.
After an exhausting night, a bath and a new position and an
adjusted pain meds schedule finally brought you some relief. Though the orders
weren’t in yet to allow it, the nurse gave you to me so she could change your
bedding. I had prepared for the swelling, but never imagined not being able to
get you out of bed. I’ll never forget holding you for the very first time, but
I won’t forget holding you this first time either.
I cried Sunday night when you opened your eyes again.
Through the frustration and discomfort of the swelling, not
being able to open your eyes must have been the most disorienting for you. Your
resilience was amazing as you began to play with toys, respond to our voices,
gesture and point, and hint at the smile we adore. But when you opened your
eyes Sunday night at the hotel and smiled at your big sister Evie, I cried a
few happy tears knowing that your recovery was going to get even better.
I cried Monday after we got home.
On Monday, I cried grateful tears as I looked back on your
recovery so far, remembering the way you noticed your big brother and sister
when they came to see you, our fabulous nurses who were patient and tireless,
and a music therapist who did as much for Evie as she did for you. We marveled
that we were all home together again less than a week after surgery. And we
were so blessed and thankful for the cards and well-wishes and support of so
many family and friends who walked this journey with us.
You’re a rockstar, Cara.
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