The Day You Were Born

"Drifting off in the undertow. Can't spot a figure on dry land.

And afterthoughts of safety. When in truth, none to be had."

River Cross by Pearl Jam

Dear Emma,

The day you were born I realized quickly you would only be with us on this earth for a short time. The shock of the initial situation quickly transitions to a gut-wrenching and cold sense of anguish and sorrow. What lay ahead seemed to be a never-ending sea of despair. However, as a veil of grief descended over my heart and eyes, pinpricks of light started to shine through. The sources of the light were the healers at Randall Children’s Hospital. They swiftly wrapped around us and drew me back to the shore and showed me a path back to you; a path not consumed by the grief of how or why this happened, but rather a path on which we created loving, sweet, and tender memories; a path that led to writing you a rich, loving, and happy story; a short story, but a story nonetheless. In the days to come, we authored your beautiful story with our healers and because of their love, you became our beautiful little poem. On the first day, one special healer started it all, brought me back to shore, and lit the path to you.

Conversations in and around the room, the hum and breaths of the cooling machine, the ambient noise of a hospital all sounded like a distant murmur. All my senses submerged in deep, dark, cold waters of the moment; nothing was breaking through. I felt sick. I felt frozen. I felt as if the entire world was wiped away and I sat alone on a frigid, lifeless rock. I started to become lost. And then Dr. C sat down and started to talk. As he explained what had happened, what was happening, what will happen my heart sank. But his words and tone, though tough to hear, broke through the dull droning of my agony. His compassion for you, “I will not let your daughter suffer…I will fight like hell if that’s what you want…she’s here and you need to hold her,” these words and many others helped me find that faint, distant star of hope. Not hope that you would be coming home with us, but hope that there was a strength somewhere within me to find a way through the pain. Dr. C helped push aside the three-headed beast, would of, could of, and should of, that sat ominously on my chest causing each breath to feel labored. With my sight clear, there you were. I got up and walked across the room. You opened your eyes for just a second. And just as I had three times before in this short existence of mine, I fell in love. Your heart still beat, there was breath in your lungs, and your eyes opened; you were still here and that was all that mattered. His words brought me back to you and away from my grief and worry.

I realized that, regardless of the how or why of this moment, I needed to put that aside and focus on you. If I continued to battle the beast of would of, could of, and should of, I certainly would have lost the brief chance to make memories with you. It’s not easy to rid your mind of the beast that’s endeavoring, working, clamoring to claim your mind, heart, and soul, but, if you can defeat this monster, the memories waiting on the other end will help shine the brightest light on the path to healing. However, even once you think you’ve got it beat, it takes focus to keep it away. Mom and I came up with a refrain that helped us re-center (it’s NSFW, though). Every time we started to lose focus on you, we’d utter “this is not fair; we do not deserve this; this is fu*ked.” That brought us back to you and to the memories we were on the verge of making. However, I need you to know, I was not alone. Just as some say it takes a village to raise a child, it took a community to wrap around us and help make the days we had with you so special.

Love,

Dad