Pain

There are days when it seems like a part of me is gone. I yearn for Sara. I want her safe and whole in my arms. There are not many words to explain this feeling. A deep abiding sadness combined with a joyful knowledge of her existence. This may sound irrational. I am joyful that she lived, if even for a few days. I am saddened by the things not done in life that we would have shared. Pain, a welcomed joyful pain.

I can't say when that started. I suspect it was after her death. The days spent in the NICU were hopeful days. Prayerful days. I would sit beside the isolette and watch her. I watch for every little movement. She laid so still. I would put my hand into the isolette and lay it right beside her little hand.

When I got to see her in the NICU in the warming bed, I laid my chandler ring (a class ring I had made for me with his name on it) beside her, and it dwarfed her.

It is odd, I was about to start the next sentence with "now, sitting beside the isolette" These events took place 9 years ago, and it is still a now.

Time has its way with you, the days are ever so long, and yet so brief. I sat for hours and talked to her, and prayed for her. Digesting inside those diagnoses, and what did each of them mean, and how could they be fixed.

My grandparents had a clock where every 15 minutes a little man would come out and move around. That was the image I got with the nursing and medical staff. They were there every 15 minutes checking on things. It was comforting. I knew the names then, I have forgotten them now. I felt part of a bigger team.

I am sure some of you are wondering about Sara's mother, and her experiences. I do not talk with her now, we are divorced. I am a person who does not share others feelings, thoughts, etc without their permission. So I have focused this blog on my recall, my thoughts. A father's perspective. I think it will not detract from Sara's story to have the single focus.

I can close my eyes now, and still see the isolette on my left hand. I would sit beside it, and turn my head to it. I know there were other babies in the NICU, but I was only focused on Sara. The others did not enter my thoughts. My world was inside a lexan box to my right.

Part of the lesson learned from Sara's life and death was the need to embrace the pain. I did not want to forget. I wanted every memory. With those memories comes pain. The pain of loss, of shattered dreams, of self blame, of remorse. I chose to welcome those pains because they were part of the process. I could not delude myself to think I could separate them from the good and positive things. Both positive and negative co-exist. To have one is to have the other.