It was nearly two years ago we first came to Syracuse; you, a senior on
the cusp of perceived independence and a loss which would affect you for the
rest of your live and me, a mother who had absolutely no idea how much loss my mother’s
heart could sustain and continue beating.
Sitting among the hundreds of parents and prospective students in a room
festooned with orange and blue, dotted with orange-attired upper classmen, and punctuated
with a freakish round mascot referred to as Otto and defined as an Orangeman,
whatever that is, I knew. I knew you
would be here. As you leaned over and
asked me “Mom, do I even own anything
orange?”, I knew you would move a thousand miles away to learn more than I
could teach you and pursue your dream,still in the process of being defined. I
knew I would lose you and, because supportive and good mothers smile at this
prospect, I smiled. I truly believe I
was happy in that moment. I was happy knowing my daughter had found the place
she would grow immeasurably. I was proud
that she had worked hard and was well positioned to be accepted to the college
of her dreams and, in turn, open new doors, doors neither she nor I even knew
existed. Sitting alone in my hotel room
this morning, I think back to that crisp fall day and consider the events which
awaited us, unwitting though we were.
I still remember the first moment I looked at you. You had been born only moments before and the
NICU nurse placed you, a burrito wrapped infant, in my arms. Reluctantly making your entry into the world,
you’d spent nearly four hours in the birth canal. Alarmingly, you were born with the umbilical
cord wrapped around your neck, blue, and limp.
I learned this, however, after the fact, after you had literally come to
life under the care of the skilled nurse who stimulated your blood flow, gave
you oxygen, and turned the purple blue of your skin to a rosy pink. I may have
given you a place to grow, but that nurse gave you life and I am forever
grateful to her. I do not know her name however;
for once she placed you in my arms my entire being was focused on you.
You. You were everything. This morning, as I sip hot coffee from a
hotel mug, you still are everything.
I spent the next two days in the hospital, hypothetically to rest and
rejuvenate before returning home with my new baby girl. Instead of resting though, I sat through the
night in the dim lights of that hospital room looking at you. I couldn’t stop looking. It was as if I was
trying to memorize every feature of your face, imprinting your face in my brain
I suppose. I have no explanation for it other than it felt right and there was
nothing I wanted to do more than look at you.
Had I been given the choice between breathing and looking at you, I have
no doubt I’d have chosen the latter. You
were beautiful. You really were. So many babies are born scrunched up, red,
and bumpy, but you were beautiful. In
spite of the four hours in the birth canal, your head was perfectly shaped. Your deep blue eyes, when you deemed to open
them, had the appearance of eyes which were looking at angels just beyond my face. Your hair, swept across your forehead, was so
thick, dark, and sleek it gave the impression of black oil floating on water. You were perfect.
It is ironic that I experience a sense of loss at the thought of your
birth, but I do. I’ve never been one who
was particularly confident in my body or what it was capable of, but I had never
been more confident as I was when you grew in my belly. I knew my body was completely, utterly
capable of doing exactly what it was doing.
Although many mothers are anxious during their pregnancies, I had no
fear during mine with you. I had never
felt more able, more strong, or more secure in my ability to harbor your being
as it grew into life. I have no
explanation for this, but it is an absolute truth for me. It was after your birth, I became less
confident. I knew you were safe within my
swollen belly. Once you were out in the world, though, I was far less
confident. Your birth was, in many ways,
a loss of the blissful sense that my body was doing exactly what it had been
born to do. I was a good mother, but it
was only your first nine months I knew by intuition. The rest I had to learn and learn I did.
Since you came to Syracuse, I have found myself endlessly looking at
you when you return home for one of your all too brief visits. At first, I thought it strange that I found
myself staring at my daughter, but I accepted it and continued staring,
absorbing every changed nuance of you. I
simply couldn’t get enough of the image of you.
Last night, as I walked from your new sophomore year apartment to my
car, I recalled that first moment you were placed in my arms and found myself
fighting back tears. You see, I am still memorizing your face and lately I find
it is changing faster than I can memorize it.
The symmetry between my instinctive need to memorize you when you were
born and my need to memorize you now is not lost on me. Both are as primal and, once again, were I to
be given the choice between breathing and looking at you, I would choose the latter. Always.
You see, in ‘Mom school’, as I call it they don’t tell you about the
many ways you can lose your child, but I believe we still know of them deep
down. I believe, on some level, we know
that we will lose our children in phases; first steps, starting Kindergarten, making
friends who can supplement your birth family and become your family of choice, realizing
your mother doesn’t know everything, going to college and learning even more things
your mom doesn’t know, and, in time, creating a home and family of your own. I think in the moment you were placed in my
arms, I knew all of this already. I knew
you were born to eventually go out into the world and make your own way. True, they don’t teach this in ‘Mom school’,
but I knew it all the same and the loss of you is eclipsed only by the joy of
seeing you take your birthright and fly higher than you ever knew you could. In losing you to your own life, I have gained
even more in than I could have imagined. In this, my place as your mother is
made complete.
~ Mk Michaels, 2015
