Seven days, I thought to myself this morning. My granola turned to cardboard in my mouth, my throat suddenly resisted the swallow, my stomach closed around a single word - NO.
I have known for so long my little babe would need surgery. More than one actually. More than two. But back then, now seemed so far away.
I must preface this with the deep compassion I feel for parents who are forced to risk so much more. Who endure unimaginable paths. Who never thought they would be forced into such deep pain. Who embody the word helpless. Holding your child in helpless arms is a cruel torture no person deserves.
That isn't us. And for that I know we are lucky.
Lucy's first surgery is a common procedure. That is my mantra. All of Lucy's proceeding surgeries will be common procedures. There is no great risk. Though risk, of course, exists. In the everyday, but with this, it feels so intensely raw. Never have I known a more vulnerable feeling... to pass over my love, my treasure, the little Lucy that no one can love the way we do. To pass her into the arms of strangers, who will put her small, sweet body to sleep and hold her in the fine balance of painless slumber and death.
Please hold her gently. Please hold her strongly. Please don't let her go.
And when they wake her she will hurt, and I hope I will know how to give her comfort. I hope I will be able to restore her sense of security, I hope she will feel our love. I hope it will be enough.
In the scheme of possibilities our ordeal is minor. But my heart doesn't know any different.
Since Lucy's arrival we have needed help. I have humbled myself and accepted it. I have said before that Lucy brings light into our world. Through her I have seen our friends and community more clearly, seen how beautifully they shine. Accepting help has shown me the hidden wealth in our world and I am deeply grateful.
And now I humble myself further and ask you for help. A far more difficult task than accepting.
I dread the waiting. I dread handing her over, but it is the time between, the time my arms are empty that I can't bear to think about.
So, please help me. If you have been reading our story or popping by to check in - you can help me!
Through writing I have made connections with people all over the world. I receive private emails, Facebook messages and comments in response to my writing. This is always rewarding and inspiring.
I am asking that you please leave me a comment here on this post. If all comments are left here in one place (as opposed to multiple private messages) I will be able to save them up in one place and not read them until Lucy is in surgery. Until I am waiting.
So, I have seven days to save your comments and create a secret stash for myself. I will have something meaningful to focus on during the time when she will feel so far away. When my nerves will be on fire.
You can tell me your name (!) or write anonymously. You can wish Lucy June love, which I will most certainly pass along to her. You can tell me a story. If you are a friend I haven't spoken to in a long while you can tell me all about your life - I really want to know! You can tell me a joke. I don't care what you say, just please say it so I have something to read that isn't a tattered magazine.
It will fill me up and I will share it with my family.
*** To comment, once you are finished writing your message select a "Comment As" option before pressing "Publish". The "Anonymous" option is probably easiest. Many people have said they have had trouble being able to leave a comment. Hope that works and THANK YOU!