Six months or so ago ...

I know, I know. We're slowly working up to the 24th, which was a Wednesday, and here it already is six months from that day of birth.

What day are we on now? We've finished Monday night, and now it's time to review Tuesday.

But I haven't posted in awhile because I'm scared of what awaits. After I tell you about the tests and tests (you might remember the tests from the other posts? Yeah, I'm going to repeat myself), I'll have to tell you about the C-section. And then the tiny baby in the plastic box. And I'm still not sure I want to go back there yet. So I'm dragging my feet.

Tuesday.

My sister had brought some things from home. A photo of my son was my most important request, but that deodorant came in close second. Because by Tuesday, I was feeling seriously grody. I hadn't had a shower since Saturday or even the opportunity to sponge bath. When the technician came in to listen to my innards, I told him I'd give him a million dollars just to hand me my deodorant. (Nurses, you put up with a lot, cuz this was one stinky chick!)

At some point, though, the nurse came in and told me I might be able to take a bath "later." In the meantime, she brought me some toothpaste and a toothbrush, along with that thing to spit in. (Another shout-out for the nurses here, for having to carry people's spit.) And she brought me towels and a basin of warm water and a bar of soap and

I felt.

So.

Immensely.

Grateful.

I remember vividly thinking how beautiful a moment it was, this basic luxury of being able to care for myself, to clean myself. That from that very moment, I would learn to appreciate every little thing in life. That I'd never complain about anything because that basic need had been denied to me and now I was getting to have it. I just wanted to wash my body.

At some point I did get to have a full-on bath. Maybe it was Wednesday morning? It was even more glorious, even as I cautiously carried my drugged and IV'd body into the bathroom and into the tub. I think I cleaned my hair three or four times.

During Tuesday's day, I also had someone who came and listened to different innards — my heart — with this somewhat painful little device that poked into my bones and skin. I'm trying to remember how I passed the day, other than phone calls to family and to work. I'm trying to remember so much that's falling away.

I'm going to stop for now, I think. Next time, I'll tell you about Mike Rowe, and about the doctor who came in late Tuesday night to do an ultrasound ... and exclaimed loudly, "The baby is breathing!"