The Thing I Thought I Couldn’t Do

I’ve been thinking a lot about bravery lately. Bravery, and all the forms it takes. You see, “brave” isn’t the same thing for everyone. Just like our fears and anxieties are all different, finding courage to face them means something different for every person.

For some people, being brave means facing tangible fears — like snakes or spiders or the dark. For others, being brave means waking up each morning and facing the day — when all your depression wants you to do is stay in bed and hide from the world.

For others … well, for me … it’s about facing things that still bring me a deep sense of grief and anxiety. Like being out in public on Mother’s Day and seeing all the happy moms and their happy kids going to church, eating brunch or playing in the sun. And, this week, it was about visiting family at the hospital where Penelope Joy was born, where she lived and where she died.

It took me nearly a week to offer a visit. Not because I didn’t want to. As soon as I heard they would be at the hospital, all I wanted to do was to rush there and hug them and be there for them. But I couldn’t do it. There are still days when I avoid the road the hospital’s on because I can feel the weight of the air caving in on my chest as we left the hospital for the last time with only a plastic bag of Penelope Joy’s things.

I knew the day was coming that I’d need to face the trauma, to look it in the face and say “hello again.” And, finally, after talking about it with Mr. B for over a week, and with my therapist, I was able to take the first step and reach out for a visit. The whole time, telling myself I had the freedom to turn around at any point if I had to.

As I pulled into the parking deck, slowly circling down … down … down, the last time I’d been in that parking garage nearly three years ago flashed in front of my face. I parked, got out of the car and looked down, realizing my whole body was shaking with the anxiety of what was coming.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The elevator ride up out of the parking level was full of heavy, deep calming breaths and some tears. I stepped off the elevator and sat in the chairs before making my way over the bridge to the hospital. Everything came back to me: the long, sleepless nights; the desperate prayers over Penelope Joy’s bed; the early (early) morning calls from the hospital to “get here as soon as you can”; and, finally, the last story, the last good-bye.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

When I had collected my thoughts, and myself, I made my way to the hospital to get my visitor’s badge and head up to the NICU to see my family and meet the precious Baby E for the first time.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Have you ever been here before?” as the man at the NICU check-in counter.

“My baby lived here for a while a few years ago,” I wanted to say. “Then she lived upstairs for a few weeks. Then she died.” But I couldn’t bring myself to tell the whole story. Not that day.

“I haven’t visited her yet,” is what I actually said. He directed me to the hand-washing station. And in I went.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The smell of the soap almost sent me right back through the door. The memories it brought with it too much to face. But I went on.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Then … I walked in their room. And my cousin was holding his gorgeous baby girl. The love in that room took away all those dark, scary memories I was holding onto and replaced them, at least temporarily, with every single happy, beautiful, good memory that we had there with Penelope Joy. From the first time we held her to the day they took all her tubes out because she was in such a good place, from the doctors and nurses who became our family to the prayers and love we received from all over the world. And, finally, my heart was filled with all of the people who came to meet our little miracle baby and filled our room with such light and hope.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

It wasn’t a long visit, but it was an important visit. Because I was reminded of the difference a little love can make in the middle of a scary situation. And I was reminded that bravery and courage come in all forms.

Sometimes it’s a mom and dad waking up and going to the hospital morning after morning, not knowing what kind of day is in store for their little baby — but they do it with tentative smiles and extravagant love because that’s what their daughter needs from them, and that’s what’s going to get them through.

And, sometimes it’s a grieving mom doing the one thing she didn’t know she could do — because that’s what family is for.

I won’t say there were no sad tears as I drove home after the visit. Because there were a lot of them. But, they were healthy tears and, in a way, much-needed tears. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to drive past the hospital without thinking of Penelope Joy. But, I hope one day the happy memories of her life we shared there will come flooding over me more often than the sad ones.

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3 Comments

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3 responses to “The Thing I Thought I Couldn’t Do

  1. Nancy Lueder

    Beautifully written, as all your pieces are; brought me to sad/happy tears for you. .

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Wendy Warren

    Just beautiful! See? You are so, very brave!

    Like

  3. Dad B

    Kimi: Your courage in facing your fears is only exceeded by your literary skills. So wonderfully written and shared. Thank you and God bless. Love Grandpa B

    Like

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