A Slow Leak

I cried for the first time this morning. I knew it would call catch up with me, and the stress just became too terse. Like a slow leak, I cried. I needed there to be a vacuum where this overwhelming waiting has resided for months. I did not cry because of fear. Not from worry. I just missed my daughter. I missed her eyes half closing in a smile. I missed her cheeky, gasping laugh. I just missed the signs of life. Now, I must wait for these things to return; the minutes and hours leak slowly as well.

I met my daughter, February 5th. She was about two months old, and not even six pounds. She was born without an esophagus. Meeting her has been followed by months of juggling time, emotion, waiting, plans for the next step to make her normal, whole. Since August 12th, she has been on a vent after twelve hours of surgery. We anticipated the swolleness and days like today when nothing seems to change. I have learned more than I have ever wanted to know about blood gases, vent settings, third spacing, tissue layers, and central lines. If education fails, I can go to nursing school. (Except for that darn fear of another person's blood... and my lack of mathamatical inclination.)

I look out our glass door, and see other families walking back and forth. I can see from the slowness in their step, and their supportive embrace that they are waiting for something different. They wait for life to end. Life of a their child, like a slow leak, to empty.

And I cry for different reasons. My own selfishness. Thankfulness. Grief for the other mother.