Five Years Ago Today we got the news from the doctors that Alice was out of danger and we could take her home. After three weeks in St. Louis Children's hospital, countless tests, spinal taps, blood draws, pick lines, specialists, days and nights of not knowing what was wrong with our precious girl, fearing after we did know just what might be the long term consequences of her illness. After days and nights both alone and shared. I will never forget the rush of relief and fear at hearing that tomorrow, we could go home. Just in time for Christmas.
There is a special kind of desolation that sets in, thinking about spending your daughters very first Christmas inside the hospital. Even a hospital like Children's, where Santa had already made his rounds and they graciously accommodated my many deliveries of Christmas gifts, and wrapping them. Where no one looked twice at me when I ordered sugar cookies with every meal, where the wall paper was brightly colored and the nurses were incredible, it's still a hospital. And a hospital is no place for a child at Christmas. And I experienced a peculiar elation mixed with guilt that we got to go home.
Four Years Ago Today things were bad. Her dad and I were still trying to make it work, but it was just a slow crawl into the romantic graveyard and we both knew it. But at Christmas, we came together, supported each other as we both relived that last year in our own way. As our now one year old lost her patience entirely with opening gifts. And I was so grateful for everything, the crowded room, the crying child and all of it. Because this year we weren't anywhere near a hospital and we had begun to have our fears put to rest that there would be any long term effects from her brush with mortality. And I felt a slow joy.
Three Years Ago Today things were getting better. Her dad and I were no longer together. But we were still a united pair. And while the Christmas music still grated on my nerves and our girl still had literally zero patience for all of her gifts, I was reminded again of how lucky we were to be celebrating a third Christmas with her. And I knew that he was too.
Two Years Ago Today her dad and I lived in separate houses. But on Christmas Eve I spent the night at his house because we never wanted to make her choose or travel between us on the holidays. Coming back into the house we once shared on that night was a singular experience. Like reentering a soundless room when you've spent a week immersed in music. I was nervous and angry and petulant. But I was excited too. Excited to once again be celebrating Christmas. To laugh at our girl when she threw her hands up in frustration and began to pitch a fit because there were just too many presents to open and she wanted nothing more than to play with her gifts that were already open. Even with all the angst and the pain I was feeling, I wouldn't have traded it for anything.
One Year Ago Today I was coming to terms with the idea of new woman in her life. Another mother figure that I was beyond unhappy about. And I was angry again upon entering a house that had once been my home, but was now the domain of another. So far gone was the life that I has imagined and counted on. It would never exist. But still we wrapped gifts and laughed together, still her dad and I were friends. Parents and friends. We had a tie that would always be, and the best part of what we had once shared was sleeping soundly in her room down the hall, dreaming of Santa and wishing for her Jack blanket. Santa delivered that Jack blanket and she still lost her patience with the sheer amount of gifts that were for her. A number that will never diminish because she is the pinnacle of our lives, and we all feel it at Christmas, how close we came to losing her before we ever got to do this. So it's alright if she gets frustrated and impatient because she's here, with us, where she belongs.
Today we are well settled in our lives of two houses. We are still planning to celebrate Christmas as we always do, in the same house, with as many presents as we can stuff around her. With stories and songs and family and laughter and at least one horrible fight, because the stress always gets to us and I don't think we help it. But the important thing is, she is here. And every year when I look back at where we were, and what could have happened. When I realize again and feel the horror of that unknowing and oh so necessary hospital stay and all that it put us through. When I look at my daughter dancing with no ill effects from her CMV, I am both grateful and terrified, because I have her and I know the fear of losing her all too well. With all the things that have been and will continue to change as she grows and her dad and I pursue our lives I am comforted by one thing. No matter what happens at this time of year we will come together as a family to celebrate not just the holiday, but the continued existence of our incredible daughter.
