As the days go by so slowly during the COVID-19 pandemic, I can’t help but find myself thinking about the vastness of time. When I reflect back to specific days over the past year, some clear moments come to mind.
The moment laying on the table in the OR during my emergency C-Section. Ava was whisked away, I knew something was wrong by the absence of a baby crying and the sound of organized chaos. I can still feel the pain in my heart of not being able to see or hold my daughter after she was born. I can still see the bright lights and hear the doctor telling me to stay with him just a little bit longer. I can feel the oxygen mask on my face and my arms strapped to the surgical table. I remember each minute was dragging by as I stared at the clock waiting for the minute hand to move. The days after creeped by and each night felt like it would never end. I painstakingly tried to hold on, but the Post Partum Depression enveloped me. When I think back to those minutes, those days, those months I never could have imagined coming out on the other side. But here I am, one year out and somehow recovered from PPD, have a beautiful, healthy, thriving, baby girl who started walking this week! I find myself yearning to hold on to these incredible moments and milestones and wishing time would just stop...while at the time wishing I could fast forward time and the pandemic would be over.
The days leading up to my mastectomy. Trying to focus at work after sleepless nights and anxiety of what life would be like after surgery. Trying to be a good mother, a good wife, a good teacher while at the same time trying to grapple with losing my breasts and the possibility of cancer in the days to come. All of the sudden, January 15th (surgery day) came and went. I had my mastectomy and recovery was brutal. Once again, the days following surgery were laborious. Will I ever even be able to lift my arms again? Yet somehow, once again, here I am 14 weeks out (see photo of me lifting Ava the other day!) Tomorrow was supposed to be my exchange surgery. It was supposed to be the day that these uncomfortable tissue expanders were removed from my chest and implants were put in. While it may be of surprise, it was actually the emotional symbolism that I was most looking forward to. Tomorrow was supposed to be the first day of truly putting this part of the journey behind me. As my surgery date has gotten moved until June 17th because of the pandemic, today was instead a day of preparing to “go back” to work tomorrow and the last day of my medical leave. Preparing for this unprecedented world of remote teaching instead of heading back to my loving school community has been far from what I expected today would be. Preparing for waiting 2 extra months for the reconstruction process to be complete is also far from what I anticipated and feels like an eternity.
As hard as these days and moments can be, I find there is also beauty in finding the stillness and light in these small moments of time. Last night as I rocked my daughter, she gripped her tiny fingers around mine. Her soft skin brushed across my face and the scent of her clean hair made my heart swell. I closed my eyes and could hear her take each gentle breath as she drifted to sleep. I would do anything to hold on to that moment just a little bit longer.
