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WEIGHTLESS
I mourn the days where the most terrifying thing to me was figuring out how to get an unwanted outside critter out of the house, or driving at night against someone with high beams. Or locusts landing on me while I enjoy the outside air. How I wish for those fears to take the number one spot in my mind again. It can go right over “bypass”, “hypertension”, “open heart surgery”, “anesthesia”, “sutures”, “drainage tube”, and whatever other risks come with an Atrioventricular Septal Defect.
Having a child changes you.
Having a sick child breaks you.
It’s like watching a fire burn and being incapable of putting it out. I’ve never known what helpless felt like until now. I mourn the days where the most terrifying thing to me was figuring out how to get an unwanted outside critter out of the house, or driving at night against someone with high beams. Or locusts landing on me while I enjoy the outside air. How I wish for those fears to take the number one spot in my mind again. It can go right over “bypass”, “hypertension”, “open heart surgery”, “anesthesia”, “sutures”, “drainage tube”, and whatever other risks come with an Atrioventricular Septal Defect.
Today, we got the call that our daughter's open heart surgery was being rescheduled. I received the call just as I pulled into the driveway after just having dashed to my local post office to intercept a package that was about to be returned to sender, all because we hadn’t had time to install our new mailbox at our brand new house. I had so much to do today, making mental checklists as I drove home. Unpack the utensils so we can eat. Find the kitchen sponge. Don’t forget to have breakfast, drinking nothing but coffee is not a good idea. Do we have meat defrosted for lunch? Oh, and find the pots and pans. We were, and still are, living from moving boxes. So now, I’ve crossed off “intercept lost package” from the list, feeling pretty triumphant and accomplished, and then my phone rang.
“Sure we can reschedule. When were you thinking?” I responded to the nurse.
“Wednesday.”
“Sure, we can do it that Wednesday instead.”
“No, this Wednesday, as in the day after tomorrow.”
Wait, that’s two weeks early. I pulled into the driveway and put the car in park.
“I know it's short notice,” she said, “but there were more pressing surgeries that needed to be done on your original date, and the surgeons don’t want to push her back later. An earlier repair is what is recommended.”
I watched the leaves fall from the trees in front of me. They danced in slow motion, weightless. They just swayed, going in any and every direction that the wind pushed and pulled them towards, effortless and accepting.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said, “I think we can do Wednesday.”
I had two weeks until the original scheduled date. Two weeks to organize the house. Organize her nursery. Spend time with her in the mornings by the fireplace. Take her outside in the backyard to look at the trees. Enjoy some neighborhood walks to the lake. Two weeks. And now it’s two days. It’s too fast.
So here I was, hours after that call, unpacking boxes and searching for clothes to bring to the hospital. My aunt sent me kimono-style onesies…where did I pack them again? Where are all of her long sleeved shirts? Where is this matching sock? Where is the dang box with her favorite books?
Today has been a blur. I’ve been inconsolable. I’ve been productive. I’ve been in my head. I’ve been confident. I’ve been strong. I’ve been weak. Having a sick child breaks you.
I wish it were me. I wish I was the one with the broken heart, not just metaphorically, but physically. I wish it were me in that hospital bed, and not her. Me having to be put under, not her. Me having to endure the recovery pain, not her. I wish the only thing I was scared of was a locust landing on me while enjoying the outside air while watching the leaves fall from the trees, weightless, dancing in slow motion with the wind, effortless and accepting.
She’s in our room right now, fast asleep. Peaceful. I wish I could freeze this moment. Because I don’t know what comes next, except for the buzzing of hospital equipment, the constant beeps from the machines, the every-hour check-ins from the nurses, that god-awful corner hospital recliner they offer you to sleep on with the scratchy blankets. The cold. The waiting. It’s too fast.
As our family left our home tonight after visiting Olivia and wishing her well, I had a thought. They left at a reasonable hour, anticipating an early morning to go to work. I thought about the times I had to wake up early to go into an office and work, too. How mindful I had to be about time, and scheduling. I thought about how complex life felt when it was just David and I and we would talk about work and our tasks still pending and how stressed it made us. This life is a whole new level of stress, scheduling, and complexity. And you know what? I would do it all again. Without knowing the outcome of the day after tomorrow, I would do it again. In a heartbeat. Broken, or unbroken. Because when I get out of bed, exhausted and barely keeping my eyes open at 6am, making my daughter’s bottle, watching her eyes light up when she sees me and gives me that turtley smile like she does, the rest of the world doesn’t matter. Everything is simple. It's her. She has always been the goal. She has changed my whole life. And even if it's hard, and it's scary, I want it. All of it, no matter what it comes with. She’s everything.
I can’t wait for this week to be over, for us to be in the clear, for us to breathe a little better, sleep a little longer, and be able to take our life off of pause. I can’t wait to feel weightless.