8 months

Yesterday was the 8 month anniversary of Pedro and Archer's arrival and departure. It has been hitting me really hard. In the quiet moments, memories are starting to surface. Lying on the acupuncture table, I remembered sitting up in the hospital bed for the first time in weeks, Bruno holding pressure points on my hips, keeping me still while the contractions came and the anesthesiologist put in the epidural. I remember the doomed feeling of it all: focusing on the jobs at hand, but knowing death was barreling toward us and we couldn't do a thing to hold it back.

I remember moments with each boy in my arms, and I wonder why I didn't kiss them more.

I remember when they first put Archer in my arms, and I couldn't see him properly. I was stuck in the bed, unable to sit up, my son alive in my arms, and I couldn't get a good look at him. I remember feeling embarrassed to ask for help. What kind of mother was I if I couldn't even figure out how to get a look at my child. I remember, too, being desperate for a drink of apple juice; I hadn't been able to eat or drink for 24 hours and I couldn't concentrate on anything except how much I wanted some juice. I remember feeling embarrassed by that thought too.

I lay there in the bed, in the weird, middle of the night hospital brightness, holding the son I couldn't see, thinking not about him but about juice. And the wise woman in me took over for the one who was in shock. I asked for juice and I asked for help to sit up, and once those two incredibly small, incredibly important things were accomplished, I finally saw my children.