I glance at the clock for the hundredth time. 730 pm. My
Molly will be here in one hour. I can hardly believe the time has come. The
past nine months have been full of joys and sorrows of every kind. The wait for
our sweet angel was almost more than I could bear. But now the waiting is over!
I rest a hand on my bulging belly and let out a deep sigh.
Tyler is across the room fiddling with the computer, just as antsy as I am. He
looks up and gives me a smile, the smile I fell in love with 8 years ago. I sit back and try to relax.
Suddenly the nurse peaks her head through the door.
It’s time.
The next hour is a blur. We make our way to the O.R., nurses
are coming and going, Doctors are bustling and poking. Monitors are beeping and buzzing. And
finally. Finally.
I expect to hear her cry, a squeak, anything. But all I hear
is silence. I try not to panic, try to remember that we expected Molly to have
some issues. But I can’t help it. Tears stream down my cheeks as I try to catch
a glimpse of my Molly. My heart is pounding in my ears and I feel out of
control as they take her out of the operating room. She is breathing, they tell
me. I try to relax but I’m shaking so hard that the bed shakes. The doctor
gives me something through my IV and suddenly everything is fine again. I am
floating.
The first time I see Molly, I am in love. I sit by her in
the NICU and touch her hair. I smile. She is bald on top with a mullet in the
back. And I love it. I move down to her eyelids and marvel at the softness of
her skin. I can’t wait to see her little peepers. Her lips are next, so
perfectly formed, and I long to nurse her. I long to feel that closeness my my
baby. I move on to her chubby cheeks, perfect ears, soft round belly, all the
way to her piggy toes. Yes, I am in love.
Two days later, Molly is doing exceptionally well. She has a
breathing tube in place to open a passage, but she is doing all the breathing
on her own. Specialists have started coming as well. We meet with an orthopedic
surgeon for her club feet, an occupational therapist for her hands, an ENT for
her recessed chin. They are all very
optimistic. We are too. All of the problems she has are fixable. For once I am
calm and feel a great deal of peace in our situation with Molly.
The day I leave the hospital is a difficult one. Before we
go I sit by Molly and feel her warmth through my fingertips. I still haven’t
held her and my body aches to be near her. I kiss her and promise to be back
first thing in the morning. I slowly walk from the NICU and into the hallway,
shutting out the beeping from her monitor.
I can’t help but notice the echo of my footsteps down the empty hall.
As we walk through the hospital door and back out into the
world, I stifle a sob. Tyler clings to me and I let it all out. I see another
mom leaving at the same time, a big smile on her face. Her husband carries
their bundle of joy, and I can see how happy they are. I try not to cry harder
as I think of my Molly in the NICU, so little and helpless. She should be with
me. She should be coming home. I try to remind myself that it will happen soon.
We drive home with an empty heart and an empty car seat.
As I kneel down to pray that night, I plead with our Father
in Heaven to watch over my angel. I feel comfort in knowing that if I can’t be
there all the time, our Heavenly Father can. I finish my prayer and feel our
Savior’s arms wrap me in His love, giving me an intense hope that everything
will turn out fine.
I fall asleep that night with thoughts of Molly snuggled in
my arms.
