I remember even when I forget

There’s a sweet spot between focusing too much on what could have happened and being drop-to-your-knees thankful that it didn’t, or so They want you to believe.

“Be grateful for what you have.” “Just focus on the positive.” “Don’t think about what could have happened.”

It’s impossible to appreciate a near miss without acknowledging what you narrowly avoided.

Sometimes I look at Callista and need to pull her in my lap and cover the top of her head in kisses because I remember the day we learned via ultrasound that she had “expired.” I remember feeling that word yank away my hopes and dreams for Baby C, but I also remember her miraculous comeback. She was gone, yet here she runs and plays and sings and hugs and kisses.

Thank you, God.

Sometimes I marvel at Eleanor running and jumping and remember how terrified I was during her first few days. She was quieter and moved less than her brother and sister. She was smaller. She lost more weight. She looked sick. Her test results landed us in a long, scary conversation with her neonatologist and left us with a wait-and-see partial diagnosis. I remember finally pulling myself apart from my fear by focusing on the one fact that hadn’t yet been questioned: Eleanor is alive. She turned the corner quickly after that, and since then, my focus has been blurred by her constant movement and achievements and absolute zest.

Thank you, God.

Sometimes I look at Toby and remember curling into myself on the big chair in our bedspace, watching a neonatologist with his hands through the portals on one side of his isolette and the charge nurse with her hands through the other side. Flanked by their sides were his nurse for the day and a respiratory therapist, and hovering about, nurses who peered in to check on our little charmer, monitor alarms going off, no improvement and no answer as to why. I couldn’t move. I wanted to scream, to cry, to know what was happening and that it would be OK. They finally stabilized him, and we waited for his blood test results while his new IV administered precautionary medication. They could never determine a cause, but he somehow recovered.

Thank you, God.

Our busy life lets a fog settle over thoughts of what could have happened and even acknowledgment of what did. My three miracles are growing too quickly for me to reflect on the scariest moments of their past, but I sometimes have a quiet moment that allows the fog to lift and the memories to flood back into focus.

Thank you, God.