After another 12 hour day spent in the new hospital that is her home, I walked into the comforting doors of our home. Everything was the same, yet everything felt different.
I started a much needed load of laundry, many of the items were the tiniest of onesies that Audrey was wearing during her stay at the other hospital. I was reminded of the very first day she got to wear clothes. And then pictured her now, her body swollen, covered not by clothing but instead by part of a diaper and mostly wires and tubes. She doesn’t have a need for clothing right now, but again she will. And when she is ready, her clothes are washed and clean.
Later I put a full eight ounces of fresh milk into our freezer. For a moment I took it all in. This freezer. It’s overflowing with frozen milk. Milk that her body hasn’t had in days. Milk that I worked for her to have. A connection between us. She and I, mother and daughter.
Then, as the night came to a close, I walked out of Cooper’s room, glancing quickly at hers. Still not ready, still unfinished. And I thought sweetly…that’s her. Right?
Still not ready. Still unfinished.
She’s literally fighting. I watch her heart beating in her open chest. I wish so desperately I could hold this tiny, incredible organ in my own hands and heal it. I wish I could feel the weight of her in my arms. I want to kiss her, snuggle her, be reminded of her scent.
Come back to me, Audrey. I need you in a desperate way. We are all waiting for you. Will you remember me? Do you dream about times with Cooper and the gentle, loving touch of your Daddy?
I believe yes. I believe in you, my darling. I believe you have purpose. And not just one, many.
I think of your fluid-filled body. Everywhere. Your toes are full of fluid. When they check your eyes, it appears that tears pour out of your eyes.
Mine too, baby. My body feels flooded with you…for you. My tears won’t stay in anymore. My heart can’t hold it in.
Her chest remains open, visible. They are keeping it open a little longer than expected. The hope is to close on Sunday and in the meantime work on decreasing the amount of fluid and swelling. Closing must happen at the perfect time and they are unwilling to rush it. Thank the good Lord. They are patient with her. The incredible nurses talk to her, just like they would if she were awake, not sedated. Not paralyzed.
Hopelessness and helplessness. Two emotions I have felt. But I can’t stay there. Look forward, Rachel. Praise for the good. Focus on the good. Do it. Now. For her…for this baby girl. I must…we must.
“You can get through what you might never get over.” -Christine Caine
Did you catch that? It’s powerful. Seems impossible. But I believe it is true. I will remain faithful.
Continue to fight with us…for her. We feel you all around. We hear you cheering her on, lifting her up, fighting the good fight.
Love and hugs,