Friday, November 2, 2012
There are two pictures beside our bed. On my side, is a picture from our first anniversary- we made a trip to Napa Valley and had the very best time. On Husband's side, there is a picture of me and LMC from the hospital.
It's a horrible picture of me. My hair is not brushed, makeup is a thing of 36 hours prior, I had been out of surgery for either 10 minutes or 2 hours- not sure, can't remember. I actually don't even remember the picture being taken.
But, I remember the moment. It was the moment I stopped being the baby and became a mother.
After going through the fires of hell to bring LMC into this world- everything was on the surface. It was raw and my emotions were uncontrollable, much like the situation I was in. Mother laid eyes on Daughter and the anesthesiologist slipped me something and I was on a one way trip into the Land of Nod.
I was gone.
I woke up later in the recovery room. In the moment, I've talked about it before- Husband came through the door, the nurse escaped in a perfect moment giving me the privacy to ache and cry. Husband slipped away and returned with a confiscated baby, where babies were not allowed. But, at 4am with a husband who knew all those wonderful nurses, rules tend to bend.
I was afraid to hold her.
I was afraid to make it real.
Husband carefully placed her in my abraded arms, unprepared for this moment. I kissed her, because I felt like that was the right thing to do. Then, I kissed her again, because I wanted to. Because she was ours. I held her close and took in that smell of love, faith, and trust. She yawned, cooed and nuzzled towards me. I was lost.
Lost in my soul, my love for my family, lost in the moment.
It might have been the morphine, but it might have been something so much bigger than me. Than us.
Husband took her back and the medicines kicked back in about the time the nurse returned, reattaching the blood pressure cuff that I had ripped off and thrown in my unconsciousness. In my haze, apparently, I reasoned with her that it was okay for it to come off.
All this leads me to today- actually yesterday. LMC has always taken an interest in the picture and always said, "Dat's Ma-mee. She's holding ME! Baby Eye-Yeen!" But, yesterday, she started asking questions about the picture.
What's that? Why those tubes there? Where are we?
I pulled her on the bed with me, wrapped my arm around her, and let her ask every question she wanted- sometimes prompting by pointing to things.
Those tubes give Mommy medicine, like when we give you Tylenol when you don't feel well.
That's a cotton ball. There used to be a tube there, but I stopped needing that medicine. The cotton ball stops the blood.
That red button calls the nurses and they come running. And those are rails- they keep me from falling out of the bed.
Remember when we went to see Uncle Brother in the hospital when he was so sick? That keeps track of my heart to make sure I don't get sick like Uncle Brother. Feel how your heart goes tap-tap-tap? Well, this monitors that so someone does not have to stand over me the whole time.
Mommy had to go into surgery to bring you here. You know how MB is in my tummy? Well, I'm going to have to go back to the hospital- like where Daddy works- and the doctor will have to perform a surgery to bring her to us.
More questions, a finger pointing to more things, and even more questions answered to the best of my ability.
Husband came home that evening and LMC ran into our room and grabbed the picture. She brought it to him and said, "Dat's when Ma-Mee was in da hoss-P-tull. She have to go back for Baby MB."
"Dat's a cotton ball. It stops da blood. Dat's a tube. It give medicine to make her feel all better."
And then she started asking Husband different questions, and Husband answered them with an even better ability. I closed my eyes, laid on the couch and listened to him, soothing to both LMC and me.
LMC replaced the picture on Husband's side of the bed and went about her evening, until bedtime.
"I love you so much Ma-Mee. Tell me if you need a cotton ball."