FOR WEST

You sleep as I write this. A little bundle of torso and limbs and fat squishy cheeks flopped warmly upon my chest. And I sit here and sip my coffee and feel your weight. Brush your baby hair against my face and smell your baby smell. This, us-ness, this you-piled-on-me-ness, this blur between where you end and where I begin is what feels most familiar to me these days because for six months now, I have held you. Snuggled you to my chest, slept with you in my arms. Breathed your breath and soaked up your sweat and felt your pain. Carried you in a front pack to and fro. Bounced you until the balls of my feet became sore and bruised against our hardwood floor. I have never been more in tune with another human being. Never felt so entwined with another soul. Sweet boy, your arrival into this world has been anything but easy, but we have been here together, you and I - and I have held you. 

I remember looking out the window the day you were born and thinking that the sky just didn't know what to do with itself. It would rain and the rain would turn to snow and then the clouds would part and light would shine down and then the clouds would gather and it would rain again. I had spent an entire week 5cm dilated and certain you’d arrive any minute, but you had held your ground. So that morning, three days after your due date and about fourteen days after I thought you’d be here, your father and I drove to Bozeman to see if the midwife could give you a nudge to come out and meet us. 

She did and an hour later you were on your way earthside. We had left the hospital and were sitting on a park bench under some mighty tall pine trees eating cookies with rainbow sprinkles when it all started. You were so low and I was already so dilated that by the time we got to our room everyone told me you’d fly right right out. Your brother had been pretty quick and dare I say easy in the birthing department and I figured you would be even more so, so I changed into a hospital gown and psyched myself up for the world’s fastest labor. Then your dad and I hung out for a while, rocking and rolling through the contractions, until around 3pm when I had reached 9.5 cm. By then things were getting slightly painful and my midwife asked if she could break my water, promising that once we did you’d be in my arms in no time. 

But oh, you little sunny side up thing - you did not come flying out. We didn’t know it at the time, but you had decided to exit the womb face up instead of down which I now know is pretty rare - only 3-5% of babies are actually born posterior, most require forceps or c-section deliveries, and holy effin shit does it make the whole pushing a baby from the inside to the outside thing more difficult. Had I known what I was in store for I would have 100% opted for the epidural, but of course I didn’t, and so I didn’t. 

I honestly have the haziest memory of things after that point - only that it was excruciating and lasted for what felt like an eternity. Eventually cursing gave way to crying as I begged and pleaded with everyone around me to make it stop. I looked at my midwife and wept, told her I was done, I’d hit my limit, I couldn’t do it anymore. Then this I vividly remember - she walked over to the side of the bed, grabbed both my shoulders, put her face about two inches from my nose and in a very stern, and very scary voice said “McKenzie, you HAVE to.” So I clenched my teeth, clawed your dad’s shoulders, yelled like hell and pushed with every ounce of strength I had left until at last, at 6:02pm you reluctantly scuttled out. 

Now I wish I could say that they placed you on my chest and we immediately locked eyes and it was magic, but that didn’t happen. They handed you to me but I was in so much pain that I could barely hold you let alone look at you. A team of doctors had rushed into the room and were all elbow (or at least what felt like elbow) deep inside of me, rooting around, searching my cervix for a tear that they thought was causing a large amount of blood loss. I screamed and howled and howled and screamed until again, my midwife - who at this point had become more of a drill Sargent - threatened to take me to the operating room, at which point I shut up and bared it until at last they had stopped the bleeding, and left me the hell alone. 

Sweat stained and exhausted from the battle that was your birth, I finally took a breath and refocused my attention towards the squishy being that had been placed on my chest. I hadn’t gotten to really see you yet so I shimmied myself up taller in bed and placed your tiny body on my lap. I remember sitting there, studying your face and hands and feet, all of which were perfect and precious, but it was your arms that got me. Because after a minute or two you opened them out wide as if to say hello. And that was our moment kiddo. The one where everything got quiet and the world around me faded away and melted into nothing that mattered. Because the only thing that mattered was you. My heart stretched and swelled and began to ache in the way that it does when it realizes a piece of itself is outside of itself, beating in something as fragile as another human body. And instantly I was head over heels in love. 

And then a wave of knowing washed over me, and I have never felt anything in my bones the way I felt these three things - first, that you were without a doubt the absolute sweetest, most gentle soul that mine had ever met, second, that despite your small size, you were brave and incredibly strong, and third — that I would spend the rest of my life worrying about you. All of which I already know to be true. 

What proceeded over the next two and a half months was a big downy heap of the most pure baby bliss I could have ever imagined. You slept through the night, you nursed, you patiently waited in your swing while I tended to your not quite as easy brother. We took trips to the river and I buried your sweet little feet in the sand. We spent nights in tents and I swaddled you close while you slept through lightning storms. You, my love, were an angel baby sent directly from the stars. You smiled early. Like really early, and more than any other infant I had ever known. And that smile, and your sweet and easy way melted all of us. You were special. And we all knew it. 

Then things started to turn. First nursing went to shit, and it progressed from there. We were told your sudden change of character and need to be constantly held was colic, that your watery eyes and growing sensitivity to light were blocked tear ducts. I went to appointment after appointment at the pediatricians, and was repeatedly sent home, told not to worry. Until at last I was sobbing to the doctors, begging them to do something, because I knew something was wrong. I knew this wasn’t you. 

I had fully been prepared to be the totally relaxed mother of a second child who didn’t Google, but one weekend when we had been sent home yet again and your pain had gotten so intense, I got so desperate that I started to search. I came across congenital glaucoma and the symptoms lined up so perfectly that your father and I spent the rest of that weekend making phone calls and beating down doors until at last we had an appointment for the first thing on Monday morning with one of only pediatric ophthalmologists in Montana. And then again you became my statistical anomaly, the one in 10,000 babies diagnosed with this miserable disease.

I cannot begin to describe the level of torture that your next few months brought. The pokes, the prods, the holding you tight while people pried open your eyelids and shined bright lights into your aching pupils. Watching you squirm, hearing you scream, feeling your hot tears roll down my neck, handing you over to the anesthesia team for surgery after surgery--not being able to talk to you, tell you that it was going to be okay. Going through this with you was unlike anything I had ever experienced. It made your birth seem like a cake walk. I know I wasn’t the one actually hurting, but when you cried out I could physically feel it, and it was so much worse than actually hurting. This terrible, horrible, peripheral sense of pain. Like someone was taking a nail file to every one of my nerves and rubbing them raw. They say that mother’s intuition is a super power, but there were days that it felt like the heaviest burden I had ever carried, and I would have given anything - I would have stood in front of a semi truck. Would have broken every bone in my body. Let somebody pull out my toenails. To take all of the suffering away from you. 

I had hoped to spend your first summer outdoors -  taking long walks together in the sunshine, watching you marvel at tree leaves dancing in the wind and sink your fingers into the wet earth along riverbanks, but instead we spent it inside, in a dark house because any exposure to light made you miserable. I had hoped your whole babyhood would be filled with snuggles and sweet songs and soft things, but instead it became filled with struggle. 

Through it all though kid, you persevered. Sometimes I would stare at your pathetic little face, at your poofy red eyes that constantly watered and would barely open, and I would wonder how you did it. Because even on the shittiest days - the ones filled with covid and stomach flus and surgeries, you always managed to look up and give me the tiniest of smiles, and let me know you were okay in there. 

Finally, after a few miracles and your fourth surgery, things started to look like they were turning a corner, and the pressure was thought to be under control. Your dad and I held each other and cried so hard the day they gave us the good news. Just at the thought that you might be through the worst of it. That the universe might be finally cutting you a fricken break. I have never felt such gratitude rush through my veins and sink into the center of my being.

Now here we are seven months in, and while things are still hard, you are starting to heal. The pain is mostly gone. We see that smile again on the regular and sometimes even get outside. You are scooting along the floor and scarfing down gooey foods and making us all laugh with your laugh, which you reserve exclusively for your brother. You grab peoples’ faces with both of your hands and you hold them and study them and then cover them with open mouth kisses. You are a quiet observer. You are a lover. You are special. And we all know it.

My hope is that you don’t remember any of the last few months. That  we love you hard enough and fill your life with so much joy that whatever imprints it leaves become a small pinpoint on a full and happy existence. But if there ever comes a day West, that you doubt your strength or question your courage, let the record show that I was here and that I remember. I saw you fight. I saw you win. You sweet boy, have walked through fire, and I will always, always be quick to remind you how truly mighty you are. 

Being your momma has brought me to my knees more times than I can count. It has drained me to levels of empty I never thought I could reach. But it has also filled me up to the very brim with the most infinite amount of love. It has made me search my soul and dig deep and realize that I too am strong. It has taught me so many lessons about presence and peace. Shown me what it is to be truly grateful. Made me realize what it is that truly matters. How lucky I feel that you chose me. What a priviledge it is to be part of your journey. I have no doubt that whatever it is you were sent here to do will be extraordinary.  No doubt that we will all be better for knowing you. We already are.

We’re still pretty attached, you and I. But I hope someday I’ll let you go. I hope you’ll run off into the world and you see all there is to see - with your own two beautiful eyes. But until then, and even after that kiddo, whenever you need me, I will be here. And I will hold you.