Through plastic she kicks
Through plastic she kicks in slow motion, a swimmer doing a static back-crawl, getting her bearings but not getting them at all. Her limbs circle randomly in the shock of release, a foreign exposure. She should still be inside, unaware and enveloped. Instead, pink gingham flaps at her thumb-sized wrists.
I can’t do it, Ben whispers. There’s a sacredness in this garden. You do it.
I lean in. Grow, baby. Grow and grow and then go home. Ben nods, satisfied, and she writhes some more. We stand there a while, tresspassing, and then we walk away through double doors that buzz and swing, leaving behind us a near-new breast pump (FOR D’BOOBIE MILK) kindly sent to me a lifetime ago. Someone else needs it now.
The card had said I AM A GIRL and MY NAME IS: ESMERELDA or something like that, except it’s not, because it starts with a soft ‘J’ that comes out like a ‘Y’ and then something that sounds like YANA but with a multi-syllable ending that sounds like music. 3 LBS 3 OZ but I can’t believe that, because that’s mightily respectable, yet I’m sure she’s the tiniest thing I’ve ever seen. She’s palm-of-hand tiny. Ring-on-an-ankle tiny. But she’s not the tiniest thing I’ve ever seen. She’s one-third bigger than Ben was when he was born.
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Have you ever looked at your hands and said to yourself, “I made it. I am living. I am so HERE. I am so here I need a Tums. I made it! I am here!”
Have you ever looked at someone else and said, “Holy crap, man! There you are! Look at you! You’re so HERE! Want a Tums?”
I know I've said this before, but you should.
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They make your breath catch, those babies. Your hand goes to your chest for the comfort of your own thump.
If you’ve ever been so unfortunately fortunate to meet one, you know they’re the most beautiful creatures ever. They make it so you never see anything the same way again. Not food, not grass, not your own thump. You step out from inside a controlled, sanitized staleness to the place where mud puddles and rosy cheeks happen. You shrug at all the crap you once thought was precious. You stop and stare at all the things you once thought were inanimate.
If you love a tiny baby, you get humble quick. Too quick to worry so much anymore about how anyone lives or loves, so long as everyone has some and gives some.
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Across the parking lot Ben yanks on my hand in the rain, turning back towards the hospital. GROW, BABIES! People in our vicinity turn and smile, and he waves a hand in the direction of the door. GROW AND THEN YOU CAN EAT PIZZA!
There you go, Ben. That’s what you can say the next time we visit. That’s just right.
YUP. He nods again. I SAY DAT NEXT TIME.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Reader Comments (33)
This was beautifully, lovingly written. Thank you.
Brandee
and it makes my boys and their messes and screeching and whining seem like such blessings. p.s. please tell ben i heart him.
And tonight I order pizza and eat it with my (no longer) Little Girl, who humbles me every day since that first, when her daddy's ring would slide easily over her own ankle.
Thank you.
Then 12 years later i was there, pitying the tiny boys sharing Freddie's room. And then I looked closer. They had open eyes. They were waving their arms. Freddie was huge, but drugged and inert, he didn't open his eyes. No one knew what to do with that big full term baby who wouldn't open his eyes.
His room mates made it home. Freddie didn't. It took me so long to work out he was the sickest in the room that I nearly missed his life. I even wrote "we've miss our first day together" - but we hadn't; we'd had one of 11 days and I missed it because I didn't know. I didn't see how much sicker he was.
How do children get to the heart of existence so easily?
Ben nailed it.
xo
xo
I had heard about preemies & seen many photos from the parents in our bereavement group, but actually visiting a NICU (after a friend from the group had a subsequent baby) was quite an experience. Her daughter is now a healthy 6 year old. : )
The truest and most beautiful thing I've read in a long time. Thank you.
who is she, the little one?
Incredibly lovely post.
Because we all start like that. And I suddenly understood more than I had before.
I vote poutine as well. Poutine is excellent motivation.
My sister's baby was 3#10oz - I still remember holding him in the NICU - it was astonishing that a baby could be so small - and of course that's almost huge by NICU standards. Now he's in kindergarten, but we still call him Tiny.
I have been on bedrest for six weeks, trying to keep the little one inside me from the plastic box. Back then, I was at 27 weeks. Now I am at 35. I am so thankful that my new baby still kicks and spins from his bubble in my body. I am so thankful that the plastic box exists, and can make a Ben who will someday look at his hands and say HOLY CRAP. Knowing that outcome is possible, that it exists, got me through the first few weeks of my bedrest, so thank you for sharing Ben (and Liam) with us.
Thank you for being so sweet and giving a pump to a mommy in need. You are a blessing. All your beautiful sons are blessings.
Much love to you...
One is that I am not certain my heartstrings are sturdy enough. Another is that I am not sure I could tiptoe away. But this post, your spectacular (again. always.) words have renewed my promise to myself that I will volunteer to hold those wee miracles and help them grow up to eat pizza without ever knowing someone left a breast pump or that there were hands enough in the night when others needed rest. xo
Thank you for so perfectly capturing these precious bundles.
Love Kelly xo