The Rest, Part 2

Being a couple weeks out from the horrific experience that was the surgery, I'm less inclined to write about the trauma. Now that I can happily report that my child is smiling often and sleeping well, I don't really want to relive details of the badness. Just know, it sucked. And still, I see the little bruises from the many IVs (and many more IV attempts), or AJ will start crying out of hunger or tiredness and I will relive a little bit of that week, and I will feel that pit in my gut, that physical ache, almost as if I'm trying to pull my little one back into the womb, where I know she would be safe from needles and narcotics and nurses. Fortunately, that sensation is now fleeting, just a bad remnant of memory of one of the hardest weeks of my life.

Just a few more thoughts before I put the surgery topic to rest.

We were at home, the first full day after leaving the hospital. Dave, Grandma Judy, and I were breathing easier after watching our little one blossom quickly back into the smiling, attentive baby she was before surgery. One of us said, "Thank god that is behind us now."

"Yes, that's the most difficult thing I've ever been through." I don't remember who said it first, Dave or his mom, but they both agreed, it was the hardest event in their lives. This struck me, though it probably shouldn't have. As the mom, I think I took ownership of this event as my tragedy to go through with AJ. I knew others were a part of it, but it was mainly mine and AJ's. This state of mind was not clear to me until I realized how much others had suffered. This was not just my struggle, and I felt guilty that I had been locked so selfishly into my own grief, that I did not see the grief of others. I saw their support and was grateful for it. But that's selfish, too, to see my husband and his parents and my family and friends as solely support for me and AJ. They were supporting me, yes, but they were suffering, too. I didn't acknowledge that. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism; perhaps my pain would have been too much if I had acknowledged their misery. Maybe I just couldn't handle any more sadness. I remember thinking that about my father when my mother was ill. To me, he seemed very selfish in his grief, unable to recognize that my sister and I were losing somebody, too. But maybe he just couldn't. He couldn't recognize our grief, because it would cause his to multiply beyond his tolerance.

Likewise, maybe part of the reason Aleida's surgery was so difficult for my husband and in-laws was a result of watching me and the physical and emotional pain I felt as the mother. Whatever the case, I feel grateful for their support, and grateful for their struggle as well.

During the same conversation mentioned above, my mother-in-law said to me, "You've had a lot of tragedy in your short life." I know she was thinking of my mother's cancer and resulting death. I know she was thinking about Aleida's heart and the surgery. And I can see why she would say this, especially since both of these major events happened since I met Dave. I appreciate the recognition that these were hard times. Nobody should have to go through these things.

But I've never thought of my life as more tragic than others, even though I did live in NJ for 4 years. Don't think that I have at all minimized the significance of losing my mother or watching my baby daughter undergo open-heart surgery. I have felt both intensely. But my life has been so full of goodness. I had a happy childhood, with loving parents and a good big sister. My mother may have died too young, but I wouldn't trade the 25 years I had with her for 50 with anyone else. I was able to pursue a variety of passions and interests. I have incredible friendships in my life. I have been able to travel and see amazing things in this world. I have lived in beautiful places. I have been so lucky in love. I have an amazing little baby girl, and again, I wouldn't trade her for any other baby without a heart condition. I even love and respect my in-laws! Not many people can say all those things (especially the last one). So, I guess what I'm saying is that the hardships in my life have been more than balanced by the joys. It goes back to those peaks and valleys- you can't have one without the other, and the lows make you recognize and appreciate the highs. As I close this chapter of my life, I recognize that I was in a valley. But, I've climbed out, with the help of my family, friends and modern medicine. And now I'm just enjoying the view from higher ground.