Kicking me out

Gosh, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I haven't wanted to write, at all. I think I'm moving away from the pain and not feeling like it's so relevant anymore to my life. How wonderful is that? But there's still a story to tell.

Saturday was discharge day. I was surprised, to tell you the truth, that I'd be treated like any other C-section case: The boot after three days. There was nothing at all normal about what happened, and I could see that as plainly as anything. I didn't understand why they didn't either.

But I was up and moving, slowly and cautiously, and I worked to get myself packed up. There were various bits of things to take care of. But it was the flowers that my dad and sister brought that I think about so sadly. They were a bouquet of tiny yellow and red roses and buds. But they hadn't been put into water soon enough, and so when I moved them, many petals started to fall. Again, in that suppressed terror of exactly what could be lost, I decided not a single one of those petals would be left behind, and I gathered every one.

So another friend was coming that day, and my son, too, would finally meet his sister. He'd been prepped on what to expect by my ex, but I was so scared. When he arrived I tried to show him some photos of Ella that I'd taken with my digital camera. And I tried to read him the children's storybook they'd given me called "Katie's Premature Brother." And I tried to explain what he would see. But he just didn't want any of that. He was simply too excited to see his sister.

"OK, Mama. OK. Let's go! Let's go! OK, OK. Let's go meet my sister!"

So we went, and happened to run into my friend at the NICU; she'd thought she was suppose to meet us there. As a gift she'd brought along the two things I craved the most during the pregnancy: Mentos and Perrier:)

We all scrubbed and I took my boy in to meet my girl. Later, my friend would tell me how she felt honored and privileged to have been there the moment my son saw Ella. Because this is what he said:

"She looks like a butterfly who's just come out of her cocoon!"

And

"She's SO beautiful!"

And

"She's so beautiful, Mama!"

And other exclamations I've lost in the wave of those first words.

Never, never did he ask about the wires, or worry about her. He saw only this tiny human being who was his sister, the girl he knew I'd have and the sibling he'd wanted. I don't know how I can possibly explain how extraordinary that moment was. In the scope of human existence, it's simply stunning. He later wrote a story about Ella, mentioning that moment specifically, for a contest. I'll share it later.

Eventually, inevitably, it was time for us to go home, my family-minus-my-daughter.

As we packed the car, my dad put some of the flowers — including the red and yellow roses — on the floor under his legs. I worried about them the whole way home.

And then we left. And as we exited the parking garage, my sister driving, my dad in the passenger seat and my son and I in the back, the despair and exhaustion stole me. I started to cry.

My little boy took my hand and said to me, "I know why you're crying, Mama. You're crying because you worked so hard and we have to leave the baby in the hospital." And I simply put my head on his lap and cried myself to sleep while he stroked my face.

I went that route not so long ago, on a return appointment to the hospital. And I was overwhelmed with the memory of it. I am overwhelmed now, at the humanity and empathy of my first child.

And when we finally made it home and I bent over to get the flowers my dad had put on the floor beneath his feet, I realized little yellow and red rose petals were everywhere. Mashed into the floorboard and not mashed at all. And as I stood up to flee, I saw them, and would see them for weeks, scattered in the gravel of my driveway as well.