I don’t panic, and I don’t even say anything to my husband, who sits in the living room with Hope and Dean as the pups save Adventure Bay. Instead, I leave my computer, light the evergreen candle that sits on top of the piano next to Eva’s framed picture and walk in to our room. I sit for just a moment on the edge of our bed, long enough to think, “this is the year I forgot.”
That is, this is the year I forgot to promptly light a candle at 7 for Worldwide Candle Lighting. There is more— so much more— of course, that I remember.
******
My fingers touch the velvety dark hair at the nape of my newborn baby’s neck and my other arm supports her warm, soft weight as she nurses. Hours old, Eva’s thick eyelashes rest on her bright, full cheeks as she pulls, sucks, gurgles, and swallows. Positioned perfectly in my arms by a NICU nurse, her monitors and IV cord drape across my lap as we meld back in to each other.
Our baby is here, I smile and marvel, mesmerized. My baby is here. I shift her from the crook of my arm to my shoulder, rubbing her wiggling upper back. Tiny fingers tangle in my hair and pull the strands in to her soft, strong fist. Cheek to cheek, we rock. Her squeaks and squirms fill my ear, and I release her strong grasp and shift her again, passing her to her adoring daddy, arms outstretched to hold her. Our Eva is here.
Hours later, the surgical team starts arriving. Eva sleeps comfortably in her isolette, positioned perfectly on her side with the NICU noodle supporting her, rolly fists tucked under her round chin. Pat and I sit mere feet from her, and each medical professional greets us and shares their piece of the surgical puzzle as necessary: nurses, neonatologist, pediatric neurosurgeon, plastic surgeon. The pediatric anesthesiologist, with kind eyes behind his oval glasses, explains the timing and risks of the anesthesia before revealing that he, too, has children with Spina Bifida. He tells us, with a gentle, reassuring smile, that they are the happiest kids in the world.
With the clink-clanking of levers releasing, the isolette that holds our big little life moves from the wall. Nurses on each side gently wheel Eva’s bed across the room toward the door. The nurses tell our daughter sweetly, “Ok, Eva, time to tell Mama and Daddy ‘see you soon’”
The intense love we’ve discovered, built, and bonded floods as we kiss our newborn child’s warm, smooth temples. We both break; telling Eva we’ll see her soon and watching, crying, as our daughter— our heart— wheels from the room.
******
Chest to chest, we rock. The amber flames crackle in the fireplace as Pat brings over her stocking.
“Eva,” I say gently to the snuggled two-week-old on my chest. “Let’s open your Christmas presents!”
As our baby drifts in and out of contented sleep, I reach in to her tan and red stocking with green E-V-A letters embroidered at the fur-lined top. A little board book: The Nativity Story. Turning the pages, I read to her the sing-song story of the first noel. A Christmas ornament: the sterling silver bootie I’d had personalized with swirling script on the sole, Our Eva Kay.
Eva’s proud daddy captures the Christmas moment with his phone’s camera, Eva sleeping, curled on to one side of me, as I hold her stocking up on the other.
******
A six-year shift is occuring. The seismic waves of grief that required attention to each detail of mourning have abated. I remember our firstborn always, and Eva’s memory— and the moments— have settled deep in to my bones. She has molded me at my core.
I visit Eva’s grave with my mom and Hope the day before her sixth birthday. The next day’s forecast of cold and snow inspired an early commemorative visit. My boys spend time together at home while we girls make the trek, foliage, stuffies, and balloons in tow.
Hope strolls gently around her big sister’s pink stone as my mom and I position and stake the birthday decor. As they settle back in to the car, I say, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to spend one more moment.”
On my own, I kneel in front of my daughter’s stone under a cloudless December sky, whisper the words I always say, and trace the letters of her name with my finger.
You have changed me. As the wind kicks up, I feel the air around me sway, and we rock.