Beach Date

surfboardWe sat and gazed out over the ocean waves

As far as we could see

Dug our toes in the cool sand

We surfed together

Just him and I, letting the gentle current guide our way

We share the same laugh, you know

We both seek joy from the wild, and by connecting with others

When it was almost time to bring the day to an end

I went and laid down on the peach and white striped towel

He bounced down beside me, nestling his tiny nose into the corner of my neck, soaking wet from the surf, and sandy

We giggled

& in that moment

I felt more joy than any other moment that day, that week, the whole summer

Moments with any other cannot even compare

He is my joy

Oh how I love this little boy

“Close Your Eyes”

blue eyesHe walked into the surgical suite hand-in-hand with the anesthesiologist.

Lifted onto the table, he was wrapped up warmly in a blanket.

I stood by him so I could look into his beautiful eyes and soothe him. I held his hand and told him he was going to be ok.

The lights, so bright, they bothered both of our eyes. I told him to close his.

I know how hard that is, to close your eyes, because then you can no longer see what’s happening, you hate to give up what little control you have left.

I smelled the anesthesia. I hate that smell.

It’s one of those scents you can’t describe until it’s there and then you know exactly what it is.

Like chemical bubble gum in a plastic air mask.

I was worried that if I leaned in too close to him, I might breathe it in too and pass out right there on the floor.

Just the thought of that disoriented me for a second, because my mind immediately sprung into panic mode, thinking about what might happen if I couldn’t be there for him.

He tried to fight it. He wriggled and wrestled to get away from it. I tried even harder to keep his eyes trained on me, to stay in his sight so I would be the last person he saw.

I always think about that when I go under.

It’s the nurse who holds my hand or rubs my arm or looks into my eyes to assure me I’ll be ok, that she’ll be there when I wake up.

That’s the last thing I see and the first thing I remember when I come to.

It’s comforting. It’s better than the bright lights.

“You’re going to be ok,” I whisper into his ear.

“Mommy loves you.”

Kiss on the forehead.

He’s out.

I walk away on rubbery legs.

Breathe. Repeat.

Then wait in anguished anticipation.

And pray that my baby will be ok.