Transition

It is March: the unofficial start of spring. Each new month and each new season has been a struggle, because each takes me further away from Weston. The calendar turning over to March has coincided with beautiful, springtime weather, so I'm dealing with both aspects at the same time. Lovely.

Generally, I LOVE March in Phoenix. We plant flowers, we can dust off the outdoor grill, and we can wear t-shirts outside. But it still cools down enough at night to enjoy semi-chilly runs in the morning.

This year, of course, is different. While the shorter, colder days took me further from Weston, springtime's longer, warmer days bring me closer. Full circle. In addition to the pain in my heart and soul, simply walking outside and observing nature coming alive serves as an all-encompassing reminder of last year's two months of pregnant bliss followed by four months, give or take, of increasingly desperate hope. Which, of course, culminated in complete devastation last July 28: hell, during the hottest time of the year.

It is ironic that I will be retracing last year's increasingly painful footsteps during the season of rebirth. If only such a rebirth, a do-over, was possible with humans. (And I mean that literally. I know people can experience figurative rebirths. They are great and all, but I would prefer literal.)

The clock is tick-tocking toward April 18: the day our problems began. April 18 was a beautiful spring day. After weeks of not being able to do much more than lie on the floor and watch Caroline play, I was feeling good. And I remember being so thankful as I walked to the park that day, pushing Caroline in her stroller and actually breathing fresh air for a change. Weston was the size of a shrimp then. I experienced many transitions in a single day: I went from feeling like a blob on the floor to being energetic and experiencing the vividness of spring with my babies, and then to complete panic. We all lost our innocence that day. Caroline STILL talks about the blood.

So, my heart and soul begin to transition yet again. But, in addition to the seasonal transition all around me, there is another literal and equally painful transition.

(Interestingly, or maybe not, I drafted the rest of this post way back in early December. For some reason I never published it. I guess now is the time. But I still remember everything about that day.)

My last visit to the NICU was the day before Thanksgiving, when I delivered the cards I made for the babies and their families. I am only allowed in the lobby, but I can see inside when the doors open. And  I can hear the sounds. That day, I heard the monitors beeping. I smelled the soap we used to scrub in every time we went in there. Weston's home. Even seeing it from the doorway was so painful that I have not been able to return.

Someday, maybe I will be allowed in the NICU again (in a volunteer capacity, perhaps), and I could visit Pod 9, Weston's pod. I have always thought that I will want to go back, although not anytime soon. Among other things, seeing another baby in his spot right now would send me over the edge.

But I need to know his spot, his home, is still there.

Except it's not anymore. Weston's home will cease to exist. The NICU is being remodeled. The remodel started a couple of days after Thanksgiving, so, unbeknownst to me, my train-wreck Thanksgiving visit was my last time to ever see Weston's home as I knew it.

(I don't know if the remodel is finished yet.)

The babies are temporarily on a different floor of the hospital until the remodel is finished. The NICU will occupy the original space, but it will be completely reconfigured, with two babies per pod instead of four. It will probably be unrecognizable from when Weston was there.

This is a good thing, I know. Two babies per pod will give families more privacy and the medical staff more room to care for the babies. Not that I cared; I didn't know anything different. Except when the mom of the baby next to me was going on and on about her friend's 24-weeker dying. I wanted to hit her in the face.

Weston's bed was next to a window. Not all babies had natural light. He was one of the lucky ones in that sense. Studies have shown that hospital patients recover more quickly when they are near a window. I wonder if the new NICU will have more windows.

Caroline and Weston were born at different hospitals. She recognizes both when we drive by. This is the type of conversation that typically ensues:

Caroline: Weston came out of your tummy at the other hospital? (We were close to "her" hospital.)
Me: Yes.
Caroline: Weston was in a little tiny crib. Then God took the little crib away from Baby Weston, and now Baby Weston is with God.
Me (trying not to let her see my tears): Yes, that's right.
Caroline: Mommy, I really really really miss Baby Weston. I want to go to heaven and see him.

Why does she have to wonder if God takes cribs away from her brother? And now, quite literally, someone is taking his crib and his entire room away, never to return it.

On another level, the remodel makes me angry. Why wasn't it available for Weston? My anger doesn't necessarily make sense, because a brand-new NICU would not have saved him. It's not like there is a cure for chronic lung disease in that new NICU. (I anticipate that such a cure would cause an intense conflict of emotions: overjoyed that babies can be saved, but heartbroken all over again at the unfairness.)

More than that, though, I just wish time would stop. The seasons should not change. The NICU should not change. Progress should not occur. My heart remains suspended on July 28, 2012, and the rest of the world should too.
~
You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable.
You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.
Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.

Yet the timeless in you is aware of life's timelessness,
And knows that yesterday is but today's memory and tomorrow is today's dream.
And that that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.
Who among you does not feel that his power to love is boundless?
...
And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?

But if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons,
And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.
~Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet (on time)