When I'm roaming the vitamin aisles I typically pause at St. John's Wart. I remember reading somewhere that it's a memory booster. And Lord knows...I need some boosting.
My memory has always been sketchy. From what I'm told. I don't really remember...
I don't forget everything. Just most things. But there are moments. Special moments. Unforgettable moments. That get lodged in my noggin' for good. I have no control over what sticks and what slides. I just know that's how I work. And is partly why I'm so obsessed with capturing my memories. With blogging. And snapping pictures. I don't want to forget. The cute little things my kids say. The pudgy toddler days. The toothless smiles. The day we bought our first home. All the easy to forget details of the life we've been Given. So I try to jot them all down. Or freeze them in time with my camera. But some don't need jotting. Or freezing. They are sealed in my heart.
Like the time that feels ions ago but was actually Tuesday...we were sitting in the family waiting area. For surgical patients. Jonathan and I were hunkered down in the snack room side. Not really for the eating. More for the outlet access . So I could drown myself in WiFi. I'll never ever forget the look on CoffeeShop Girl's face when she peeked in the door and said,
"Ummmmm...I'm looking for a Danielle Foltz?"
I had NO clue what was going on. I stutter and fluster in those kinds of situations. So I stuttered that I was she. As all the other hunkered down families gawked. It was kind of a scene actually! A welcome distraction I'm sure.
CoffeeShop Girl rushed over gift card in her hand. And announced that a...ummmmm...Sophie's Mom had just phoned in a gift for our family. A first for them by the way!
CoffeeShop Girl's special delivery was one of those moments. Which we've been enjoying heavy on the cream and splenda since Tuesday.
Then there was the moment the mom from the VMR next door knocked.
I knew she was there. In the room next door. Dr. Rockstar had mentioned. And suggested I go over to introduce. As they were a little family very similar to us. Far from family and home. Chasing a miracle for our seizure saturated little ones.
(In fact...if you guys are reading...you're in my thoughts today. I KNOW how huge today is for you. I hope you feel the warmth of the hug in my head!)
I have only met a few other IS mommies. In person. It is always always moving. As it was then. When our both our eyes spontaneously watered. Because we are sisters. Connected by a bond as strong as blood.
That is one of those forever moments. She will always be a beautiful etching in my heart.
There was the Trevy moment yesterday. Eyes so puffy. So red. Looking bruised and unable to open. But he was awake. I could tell by the fluttery movement under the redish puffs.
So I took his little hand. Because I wanted him to know I was there with at least one of his senses. I picked up a little car. Laid his hand on the wheels for him. Because he could not on his own. And made the wheels spin. Just like he would do if he could.
Over. And over. And over. Again.
Spin. Spin. Spin. Because he loves to spin things.
Because that's what he would do if he could. And I said "spin...spin...spin" rhythmically with each turn of the wheels.
I cannot adequately convey the power in that moment when my son. With a face that reminded me of a newborn kitten. Puffy sealed shut eyes. Wires and tubes and all kinds of junk connected to him. Flashing. And beeping. And pumping.
In that forever moment...it was just me and my baby. I gently laid his hand on the wheels. And watched with tears streaming as he brushed his hand on the wheels. To make them spin. All by himself. And his little voice...cracked and scratchy from the tube that had been inserted just days ago. Like a sonnet to my ears...uttered...
As he tried to imitate me.
My heart overwhelmed with emotion. The kind of emotion that seals memory deeply into the hearts of even the most forgetful.
There are others of course. But some of the forever moments are just for me. Not really the sharing kind. Although it is helping to pass the time.
We had one of those moments this morning. In the pre-op wing. Which is surprisingly cheerful.
Except when you have a two year old. Puffy eyed. And pathetic looking. On a metal crib on wheels.
That moment. When they put him to sleep. Right there in the pre-op room. The staff so fabulous and compassionate. But unable to comfort us even though they tried. Because really...how can you? Comfort the parents of a child about to have half his brain removed? It's an impossible task.
Which is why I was sobbing. I don't break down and sob often. I used to. But just not so much anymore.
But this morning. My heart wrenched. The tears flowed. And the memory of kissing my son...puffy and white and whimpering...
became one of those moments...