I put my faith in her coming home. I put my heart into believing it'll be okay. I put my soul into trying to protect her--- I'm so conscious now of each bump, and jab, and tickle, and ache; I count them all. I breathe for her. Every moment I feel her, every tiny butterfly inside, so cherished.
But I am so, so scared. Worse than any horror movie. Worse than any imagined fear. This is real. It's tangible. It's a smell in the air, feel it on my skin, breathe it out in shaky gasps, hold my girls so tight, dream of nightmares that terrify me less than life, feel my heart in my stomach kind of fear. What if the lamb and the pajamas are never used? What if I go home from the hospital empty handed?
Have faith, be strong, think positive. This IS all those things. I could not put them back once they were in my hand. But what if she never wears the jammies or never hugs the lamb? What if she has a box in my closet like Gabbie where her meager possessions she never used will go and a bear on my nightstand with her ashes inside? What will I do? What will I do?
I'm on my knees. It's all that I can do. I cry. It's all that I have left. I'm on my knees. But it cannot end there.....
And so I pick my chin up, put my taped, tired heart back together. Dry my face. Stow her lamb and jammies away. And hope. And pray. It's just a little breakdown, a momentary lapse. And my fear recedes to the darker corners of my mind. It's time to make dinner, do some laundry and carry on, counting kicks.
Who wants chicken?
