Gift

Dear Ava,

Apparently I'm not as strong as I thought.

Nearly two weeks after your arrival, after the carnival of diagnoses and surgery has torn down and left town,  you and I and Daddy are left in relative peace to regroup and rearm ourselves for the next battle at hand: feeding.  I can't imagine what it would be like to be denied the pleasure of food for the first week and a half of your life (and I'm sure your Daddy especially couldn't conceive of it - he's a HUGE fan of nourishment in whatever shape, form, or fashion it's presented).  Now begins the slow ascent toward healing, toward the comfort of routine that will illuminate our homeward path.

I'm thankful that these events are unfolding during the bleak month of January - out of all of the months in the year to be sequestered, I'm almost relieved to be removed from the contagion and cutting temperatures typical of this time.  I'm grateful to have a window out onto the world in your private room - in stark contrast to the pod where you spent your first days - and a little space of our own to arrange as I see fit.  When you reside in a small, confined space, seemingly insignificant tasks like changing blankets and putting together new baby outfit combinations take on surprising significance.  You struggle not to depend upon the television as your main source of stimulation.  Day to day living both crawls and flies by.  Sleep is elusive.  One consultation leads to an adjustment which leads to another consultation...  And so it goes.

None of this is your fault, dear daughter.  Although you're the one who bears the brunt of the hardship in this situation, all I truly know is my own thoughts.... and I constantly fight the urge to disconnect you from all these tubes and wires, strap you to my chest, run home, and lock the door behind us.  I have to give up this fantasy.  I know we're doing the very best thing for you by being here.  The medical staff here has been nothing short of nurturing and supportive.  If not for Daddy's rock-steadiness and the understanding of some very special nurses with whom I've had intimate conversations, I think I would be struggling in this purgatory so much more.

Every time you look at me trustingly with my own denim-hued eyes, you assure me that every moment spent here in this hospital is an investment in the future of your health. Every scrap of information issued from the medical staff is an opportunity to gain insight into your condition.  Every potential diagnosis-related obstacle that I read about as I rock you further arms me to fight for your development.  I look at you see a puzzle that will ever fascinate me, a Rubik's Cube who I will learn the motions of by muscle memory.  There is no single 'solution' to you, or a lone path to your ability to successfully eat.  This is our first journey together toward a common goal.  This is our first class in learning to follow your lead, to listen to your body as it tells us when it's ready for progress.  This is your first gift of patience.