The night before Violet’s surgery, I couldn’t sleep a wink. The interior stream of words, thoughts and visions flowed like a river. And it all went back to that one hospital in Nashville, Tennessee, where I gave birth to her and where she’d spend the next five weeks struggling and surviving in the NICU. I could feel the vibrations of my scream at the hospital. And I could see the shape of her hand. So small that it was hard to believe it was even human. Could I trust them with my baby, I thought over and over. When the alarm on my phone rang, rays of sunlight beamed into my bedroom and filled me with purpose. I was both awake and aware. Despite the heaviness in my body, from my eyelids to my toes, I pulled myself out of bed, threw on some clothes, and decided that I was going to go for a run. As I ran, the path ahead continued to roll out like a welcome mat. I felt the warmth of the sun on my face, and I kept going, one foot after another. The momentary hold on my heart, releasing. Perhaps that’s the reason they say that movement is healing for trauma. It keeps you focused on the sun.
Violet had her surgery, and while it was longer and more arduous than we expected it to be, she came out of it. At first, in a blur, of course. But when we got home, she giggled at Lily, munched on popsicles, and slurped on some soup that a darling neighbor and friend gave us. And just like that, she was one calm and blithe little gal. It was as if she knew that she was exactly where she needed to be.
I tucked her into bed shortly after, where she fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. The dip drop sounds of rain played from her sound machine and the sun nightlight in her bedroom glowed softly, and reassuringly. Children are such resilient little creatures. There's so much for me to learn, and there's so much for me to unlearn from them.
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