Precious in the sight of the LORD
is the death of His saints.
Psalm 116:15
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Around 7:30
that morning, I awoke, still feeling eerily euphoric, and relieved to be able
to sit up and move around, although still restricted from getting out of bed
without assistance. That would come later in the day when I’d slide out of bed
and enjoy a wobbly, three-step shuffle to a wheelchair, followed by a warm
shower. The reality of loss hadn’t fully penetrated; my spirit lay protectively
cushioned in denial – the early stage of grief.
Dr. Gordon
arrived early and asked how I felt.
“I feel great!”
I announced with a bit too much enthusiasm. My words resonated a hollowness.
“Sure you do,” he retorted, smiling sympathetically
at my over-ambitious and enthusiastic assessment. “Look at your fingernails.”
I quickly
surveyed my hands and nails. With bewilderment, I noticed their ash-white
shade.
“Your nail
beds look as though you died,” he
pointed out with friendly sarcasm. “You aren’t ready to get up and begin
running around; you need to replenish your red blood cells first. And that
means rest, iron pills and food.”
“Real food,” I sighed. That seemed an
acceptable alternative to a transfusion.
After examining
my incision and stitches, and visiting a little longer, he left me to enjoy my
first solid meal in four days.
While
eating my mind wrung its neurological hands: Will anyone say anything to me about Victoria? Will they automatically
bring her to me? Will they ask if I want to see her? Or have they already taken her away? Wouldn’t they know I’d want to
hold her? Afraid to inquire, I ate in silence, eyes examining my food,
while the nurse cuffed and compressed my arm and had me twist my tongue around
a thermometer for the compulsory vital statistics update.
Soon after I
finished eating, another nurse arrived to announce she’d be wheeling me down
the hall in a wheelchair to bathe in the handicapped shower. Unintentionally, I
blurted, “May I see my baby?” Then I
sucked in my breath.
“Of course,” she replied. “I was
wondering when you would ask. I will bring her in for you to hold.” I exhaled
as my heart pounded wildly.
Within
minutes she returned, carrying a small bundle. Victoria was swaddled snugly in
a soft, pink and blue-striped receiving blanket, as though she needed shielding
from the cold, just like all other
babies in the nursery. She placed her gently in my outstretched arms, smiled
tenderly and quietly left the room.
I lay
Victoria delicately on my lap and hesitantly unwrapped the blanket to gaze at
her. Chris was right; she was so little.
And she was perfect; every intricate, miraculous detail was there. Carefully, I
caressed her head, feeling with delight the first wisps of reddish-blonde hair,
then cradled her tiny head in the palm of my hand. I stroked her eyebrows and
tenderly ruffled her silky eyelashes with my fingertip. Her eyes had not yet
opened, so I could only imagine them being the piercing, vivid blue illuminated
in my husband and son. My fingers outlined her tiny ears then migrated to her
pouting bottom lip. Just like Parker’s,
I thought with a melancholy smile. Her skin was translucent, resembling a
fragile china doll; even in death, I feared she might break in my grasp.
Gently
opening her clenched fists, I wound her five diminutive, dainty fingers around
my one little finger and stared in awe at the miniscule nails adorning the
ends. Curled in the fetal position, she resembled a content, slumbering baby.
For a brief moment I could have deluded myself into believing she was still alive,
and merely resting contentedly in my arms. Fastidiously, I re-wrapped the blanket
around her frail form and hugged her to my warm
body. She looked so cold.
Throughout
the day I held, cradled, observed, stroked and murmured in her silent ears,
“Oh, Victoria…I am so very sorry. I love you!” Repeatedly, I kissed her
forehead and caressed her satin cheeks. Chris insisted that she resembled me. I
was sure she was identical to him and to her big brother. Although I did
concede to her having my chin; yes, it was definitely my chin. And maybe my nose. And of course, I had been an auburn baby, and then a
reddish-blonde child.
Unequivocally,
she was beautiful, and I longed to
savor these precious moments with her. Once they came to remove her from my
embrace, the separation would be permanent. I felt a sense of urgency to
prolong my meager demonstrations of love, and to say hello—and goodbye—in as many
ways and forms I could. The clock ticked unforgivingly in its reminder that the
hourglass had no respect for my needs or desires.
In mid-afternoon
a young woman from housekeeping entered my room and started dusting and
emptying. I greeted her with a smile and hello then returned my attention to
the tiny infant lying on the bed in front of me. She glanced over at my bundle
and smiled a wide, congratulatory smile. Then her head snapped around to look
at Victoria again. With the realization that the tiny infant on the bed was
inanimate, a look of horror contorted her pretty face.
She exited the room in lightning speed, leaving her cleaning duties unfinished.
At the door she threw an appraising glance my direction. A glance that made no
attempt to conceal her private thoughts: she thought I was a demented,
desperate mother.
Deep
compassion for her flooded my heart. How
can she possibly comprehend or appreciate what I’m going through? I was a desperate mother. And at that
moment I was behaving in the most natural way a desperate mother would behave: faltering,
laboring—struggling with every once of energy and sanity I still possessed—to
endure this hideous reality in the most constructive manner I could.
With the
grace of God, I struggled to take up my newly constructed cross and bear my
uninvited, wholly unwelcome burden.
How could
God consider so “precious” what I considered so detestable?
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NEXT WEEK: The
final goodbye and unexpected decisions to make…
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Again, thanks for joining me.
Until next week!
Blessings,
Andrea
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