Friday the 13th

'So maybe now it's time,
And maybe when I wake
They'll be there calling me "Baby"...
Maybe.' ~ Annie

Today marks the first Friday the 13th we've had since the day Kathryn was born. 

She would be eight months old today. 

There is a facebook friend of mine from college whose little boy was born on her birthday, and as strange as it sounds, I love to see pictures of that little boy, because it gives me a perfect snapshot of what she would look like and be doing if she were still with us. 

Sad, but at the same time, when you're grasping at ways to feel like you really knew your child outside of hospital alarms, sickness, and sadness, sometimes, a picture of what she could have been makes all the difference.  I know he isn't her.  But in my mind, he's a snapshot of what she would be, if she were still here. 

But she's not.  And we are moving on, living life, and growing up.  Or at least we're trying.

Did I ever tell you that on the day she was born, it was storming outside? 

Or that the NICU doctor came in the morning of the c-section to talk to me and mom about what would happen, STEP BY STEP, after Kathryn was born, and gently, firmly told us that we should all be able to know whether she would live or die by about ten or twelve days along? 

Or that my best friend, my sister soul mate, flew from Baltimore that very morning, to be there with me, to hold my hand and just HAD to be there before I went back, and before she was born...

Or that they let me take a shower that morning, the nurse on duty, along with my cousin's help (also a L&D nurse there), even though I was completely medicated beyond my mind and had IVs running all over the place?  That they made sure I was calm and not in pain, albeit with the aid of a lot of fentanyl...

And before the surgery, I had already thrown up twice, and when we went back for the surgery, I had a  panic attack.  And the head anesthesiologist sat down right by me, and told me it would be okay...

When they cut me open, before they pulled Kathryn out, there were exclamations of shock all over the OR, as FLUID. WENT. EVERYWHERE.

I even managed a joke to the one of the docs about how I hope they hadn't worn their good shoes, as they were leaping over water, POURING out of my stomach, flooding the floors, and as techs worked feverishly to mop it up and keep it contained.  

And as the fluid poured out, I made a huge gasp for breath, and said to everyone, "I can breath!"  I had no idea how bad it was until I was finally able to breath again.

And y'all, I'm SO not exaggerating.

Then, when they pulled Kathryn out, NICU staff were immediately right there to take her, and by the grace of God, my urgent, tearful pleas to see her were answered, and they lifted her up, not making a sound but one tiny squeak  gasping for air, for about two seconds, before they took her away, and the tears just flowed.

And I told BT to go, to go be with her, that I would be fine. 

So while they sewed me up, he was with our baby, our second-born child.  Our first daughter.

And when he came to see me in recovery, he had pictures on the camera to show me and Cheryl, and he said to us:

"She's perfect.  Cute as a button," with a huge proud grin on his face.

After recovery, they rolled me down to see her. 

And she was....cute as a button.  Right down to her little button nose.

The rest of the day was a medicated blur for me.  I remember lots of tears.  And I remember going down to the NICU despite the urges for me to rest and take it easy from surgery.  But really, what else is a momma to do?

So you'll forgive me if Friday the 13th will always bring back the flood of memories from this day. 

This magical, scary, overwhelming, unearthly, life-altering day.

8 months have passed, and on one hand, it feels like forever ago.  On the other, as I write it all out, I can still feel it like it's happening right now.

I think, sometimes, my friends, that it will never go away.