memories

I woke up this morning remembering.  The fog is covering the mountain, and I can't see across the valley.  Today it is comforting, wrapping me in a blanket of protection. Lately the memories have been strong and vivid,  like it all happened yesterday.  I go to bed with them, and I wake up with them.  They come to me as I'm teaching, while I'm on the treadmill, and when I'm driving in the car.  Sometimes they make me smile,  but mostly they draw tears to my eyes.  There are days like today, where I allow the memories to flood in and take over my thoughts.  In the book, Because of  Winn Dixie, (which I just recently read to my class), the little girl asks her dad for a list of ten things about her mother so she can remember her.   I've been thinking about those three days in July, and what memories stand out the most, the painful and the beautiful.  I've been avoiding writing them down, because it causes the well to overflow.  But today, I need to. So here goes. I'm shaking as I write this but here are ten memories that will stay with me forever.
1.  Waiting for the C-section.  Being in the hospital room, feeling Luka move, and wondering what she would be like when she arrived.  The mix of anticipation and disappointment that I felt from having to have this procedure, and the loss of my home birth in water.
2.  The little cry Luka had when she came out, and the instant knowledge from a mother's gut instinct that something was wrong.
3.  As they wheeled her out of the operating room, she turned her head to look at me, and we made eye contact.  I remember saying "She's beautiful. She looks just like Aline." (her grandma)
4.  Holding her for the first time.  Knowing that something was wrong but I didn't care in the least. I loved this little girl. And then watching Michael hold her.  The instant bond they shared.
5.  The ambulance ride to Vancouver.  No drugs, bumpy highway, listening to the Ipod. Thinking of her in the helicopter. Wishing she was with me. Trusting she was in good hands.
6.  Seeing her in the incubator for the first time in Children's.  Touching her little legs and arms, and her tiny chest.  Her soft skin.  Her tiny cry.  Her response to our voices.
7. The not knowing. The fear of having a disabled child.  The deep knowledge within me that I was going to lose her.  Finally hearing from a doctor that she wasn't going to survive.  Her having Trisomy 18.  The strength I found to let her go.
8. Holding her, even with all the tubes, and putting her on my breast.  Her little mouth around my nipple and then falling asleep in my arms.  The best feeling in the world.
9.  The decision to take her off the life support.  My parents carrying her from the NICU to the private room we had as a family.  The sadness in my parent's, and their unbelievable love for their grandchild. The love in the room.  The silence, the tears, the joy and pain and the loss of innocence for us all.
10.  Holding her as she died.  Her hiccups as she left us.  Her last breath.  The feeling of gut wrenching pain, relief, and peace all at the same time.  That moment will never leave me.  Her beauty.  Free from pain.  Free.

As painful as this was to write,  I needed to.  It's been swirling in my head the past two weeks, and it feels good to let out.  It helps me heal, and look forward.  Lately, I feel spring in the air.  That wonderful smell of soil and plants growing.  Our landlords gave us a beautiful pot of daffodils and crocuses last week.  They sit with Luka's ashes, and have been blossoming with gusto all week.  A reminder that anything is possible, and that darkness can only lead to joy.