She feels so light in my arms.
What if I cannot hold on to her?
We buckle her into the carseat that is supposed to carry her safely home. I sit next to her, watching her stomach rise and fall, keeping her wobbly little head from falling to the side.
Less than five minutes after we drive away from the hospital a nurse calls to tell us that I have left my face soap there. They saw the Dermalogica label and knew it wasn’t cheap, so they call us to say that already we have forgotten something. We turn around and drive back to get it, and I wonder if maybe we are meant to stay in that room, safe behind the sterile walls.
I have lost babies, and years, face soap – and what if I lose my daughter’s heart?
Now that her body is outside of mine, the doctors’ monitors will no longer search to make sure it is still beating. And the heart that cannot be monitored is a much trickier thing. I know, because I am a woman. What if this forgetting of the soap is just the first of my missteps?
What if I have brought her safely here, just to lose her heart?
We drive home, and all is sunshine, wonder, and fear. My husband opens the van door, and I carefully lift my mending body out. There are our rose bushes; life is the same and yet it is completely new for she is here. This is miracle that I raise her from her carseat and walk those ordinary steps to the front door. Barely inside and my boys crowd round, their eyes full of worship. We stand still. This is a moment you do not rush by.
I shower, and she sleeps, and we are home.