Time & Perspective
One year has passed. One year since first hearing the words no mother wants to hear about her baby. One year since I left a piece of myself in that exam room.
It is April 28th once again.
With each tree that blooms, I am reminded of where we were just one year ago. I allow myself to revisit that pain, but the truth is, it has never been too far from my side. I read and re-read that email. The first one I sent to all of our friends and family. That initial diagnosis that broke my heart into a million pieces.
I was told by a very wise mama, who traveled a similar road to mine, that I would need 2 things to get me through the healing process, neither of which I have control over.
Time and perspective.
Time is something I never seem to have enough of lately. When I look at Ellie, now 4, I am bewildered about where that time has gone. When I look at Mira, I see time differently. Before her arrival, the days seemed like years and time seemed to stretch on for miles. One year later, I would love to say it flew by, but I can’t. It didn’t. Fear of the unknown has a way of slowing down the clock.
Perspective is something that came to me within days of Mira’s birth during my late night walks to the NICU. I walked past the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit, gazed across the atrium towards the Oncology Unit and walked past the rooms of dozens of babies fighting for their lives. I had the privilege of holding my 10-pound miracle in my own arms and it hit me hard just how much I have to be grateful for.
I face perspective head on each time I return to CHOP; each time I see a beautiful little face with a bald head being wheeled past me, or the mom with circles as dark as night under her eyes because she hasn’t slept in the months that she has been an unofficial tenant of the hospital. Only the unpredictability of life separates any of us from those waiting rooms. This is my new perspective. It’s harsh and it’s scary, but it’s so true.
What has unfolded in the past year has been nothing short of incredible. How much our lives have changed, how close our family has become, how we are blessed with an opportunity to teach and be taught by others. Our experience has opened the door to a community of people I would have never known before. We have been welcomed, accepted and supported.
Today, we have our very own miracle living under our roof. Mira’s mere presence is a daily reminder of just how fragile, fleeting and beautiful life can be. I remember those femurs, the ones that set off the alarm in the first place, but now they are covered in rolls and rolls (and rolls) of glorious baby fat. I remember that chest, the bell-shaped one that they said “wasn’t compatible with life.” Now I get to watch it rise and fall every night as she falls asleep in my arms. I touch those fingers, the ones that took an hour to get a still image of, the ones that led to her final diagnosis, but now they are wrapped around my heart, and there is no letting go.
Our plan remains the same; take one day at a time. There is far less fear and so much love.
So much joy.
