That Cry.

It wasn't the tubes or wires that erupted my anxiety, that which I have grown used to seeing and knowing the importance thereof. It was the crying that I heard from my boy as they hooked him up. And not because he was upset, because damn right he should feel upset that he had something shoved up his nose, but that she didn't cry when tubes were running in and out of her body.

Not a peep,

not a sound,

not a whimper.

We held this perfect baby, our sweet girl for 33 days and not once did we hear her cry. I remember once thinking how lucky we were to be spared from that painful sound because as babies, that's how they communicate. That's all we would've heard from her were tears. Too young for true smiles, too young for laughter, we would only have memories of the painful and sorrowful cry of our baby, as we desperately tried to heal what could not be helped.

So, as I watched our third baby, her youngest brother scream at discomfort, with anger at what was happening in the hospital, I could feel the oxygen in my lungs get tighter. And I'm still waiting for it to return.

The anxiety is less now.

Less frequent.

Less intense.

Less necessary for survival.

But sometimes, the memory and the pain and the reminders of what life was,

what life has become

and what life is-

still takes my breath away.

And today, I'm still trying to catch my breath.




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(Adam is ok. And when you are sick, stay home. Your cold is just a cold for you, but for our babies, it can be life threatening and dangerous.)