On Letting Go

These are the moments when I had to let you go, Tikva...

When the ultrasound doctor said, There's a problem, and I said to myself, My baby could die.

When I felt what it would be like for you, and for me, if you had the intrauterine surgery at 28 weeks. When I thought about what if you didn't survive it, what if you were born too early to have any chance at life. Something told me that the longest time possible inside my womb was what you needed most to help you prepare for the journey ahead. With your Daddy, I decided to keep you inside me - where you were safe - for as long as you wanted to stay there.

When the doctors wanted to induce me at 38 and 39 weeks, because you were showing no signs of wanting to come out on your own. When I asked them to hold off until at least I'd hit my due date. I didn't want to let you go, and you didn't want to leave either.

When it was time to let them break my bag of waters so that you would come out. That was the hardest decision I had made so far - to release you, to let you go out into the unknown. I didn't want to, I would've kept you inside me forever.

I am not in charge of the unfolding of your journey, Sweet Tikva. It has always been bigger than me.

I let you go so many more times after that...

Entrusting you each night to the care of the nurses and doctors in the ICN, never knowing what the night would hold for you, or how - if - you would be the next morning.

Stepping out of the room when they did your surgery. Trusting the doctors to work their magic.
Stepping out of the cardiology room where they were playing "All You Need Is Love," you looking up from the table eyes wide and curious, so they could do your cardiac catheterization.
Stepping out of the radiology room and watching from afar so they could lower your feeding tube past your stomach.
So many moments of leaving you, Tikva. Letting you go.

I let you go the day I had to tell the inexperienced nurse that it didn't look like you would bounce back on your own from a desat, and asked him to push the code button and all the doctors and nurses came running in to bring you back.
I let you go as I watched them surround you, leaning for dear life on your Daddy who held me.
I let you go as I cried with fear at the possibility that this would be it.

I let you go when they tried to do a bronchoscopy, and had to reintubate you.
Your Daddy said he saw your spirit floating above you in that moment, and wondered if it was then that it would flee your fragile body and go free.
That day I let go of the absolute belief that you would come home with us and be well.
I accepted your temporary visit and the possibility that you might go soon.

I think I always knew you would only come for a short time.

And the biggest moment of letting you go - your very last day in your body.
I let you go that morning as I got dressed, mindful of what I would wear, knowing somehow that it was an important day.
I let you go when I put on my Miss Piggy socks your Daddy had given me on my birthday, the magical day of your surgery.
I let you go when the bronchoscopy showed the long-term damage on your airways, when your other lung began to fail like the first had been, when the faces of every professional around you changed so visibly to sadness, to loss of hope.

I let you go when you spoke to me with your soul and told me you were ready.
When you asked me to stay close to you for the journey.

I let you go when I began asking the social worker and nurses and doctors if we could take you outside to breathe fresh air.
I let you go when I told them we were going to let you return to God.
I let you go when I sent text messages to Julie asking her if you were ready, if this was really what your spirit wanted.
I let you go when she reminded me to simply allow, and I communicated that allowing to you.
I let you go when I watched your condition worsen exponentially within less than a day.
I let you go when I sat next to you and looked down at your challenging body and told you I would love you forever.
Forever, no matter what.

I let you go when you opened your eyes outside and your soul of so many lifetimes reached into mine and thanked me for loving you.

I let you go when it was time.
I held you as you went free.
I sang to you.
I stroked your oh so beautiful face,
Your soft cheeks.

I didn't want to, but I let you go. Because I wasn't in charge. I was never in charge.
All I could do was to love you... completely.
No matter what.

For the past two weeks I have been reliving those moments as if they were right there, tangible, all over again.
I have felt the hugest tears roll down my cheeks, tears that needed out, tears that aren't quite done.
Thinking about releasing you from my womb, I have felt the space around it now contract, wanting so deeply to keep you inside me.
The opposite of letting go.
Thinking about releasing you from your failing body, I have longed for an alternate reality where I could have held you, alive and breathing on your own, forever.
I have longed like I longed in that moment to do the opposite of what I had to do.
I have let you go all over again, with each reliving letting you go more completely,
Releasing more tears, more sorrow
So that they don't get stuck inside me.

And each time, Tikva, you have told me you were fine, you were free.
You have told me that you were only living out your destiny, unfolding your perfect story.
You have told me that I wasn't in charge, and didn't need to be.
You have told me that you want now to remain free,
That I can continue to release you,
That you are happy being all around me
And don't need me to hold you so tight inside.
That you are safe now.

And you remind me of how much love I have to give.
Inside my heart, inside my soul, inside my womb.
You remind me that my love and strength are ever expansive.
That my spirit - like yours - is infinite.
You remind me that there is great peace in not being in charge of it all.
That I can still feel you within me and all around me without needing to hold you tight.
That there is so much space inside me to hold, nourish and love another child.
That you would never want me to hold back on this love that you knew so intimately.

That part of me that contracts - that holding on part - when I think about letting go of you, Tikva
Is the same part of me that is expanding to welcome in your brother or sister.
It's like they happen simultaneously, this awareness and the expansion that results.
It's an awareness of the energy I still hold there of all the moments I had to release you to your unfolding.
I think in some way it will always be there just a little.
Perhaps there is a way to hold it as a reminder of how capable I am of expanding
To the outermost infiniteness of love.

My heart jumps - leaps! - at the idea of loving another child.
It double-leaps at the idea of loving two more... and so on.
When I take in that possibility, I feel warmth, peace, and everything relaxes in and around my womb.
That is your gift, Tikva - one of expansion, of anything is possible.
You did not come through me to make me contract.
Rather, you pushed me further along on my own journey than I ever would go without you.

My soul is more vast because of you, Tikva.
This expanded soul will never shrink back.
When I continue to expand, continue to love, I honor your eternal spirit.