I was lying face down in my own vomit in cardiac arrest, moments from death. In a little while they would be cutting open my stomach to remove the 7 month old infant that was living inside of me. The body that had been her sanctuary for 7 months was failing and if she wasn't removed, she would certainly die. All 2 lbs of her was taken from me within seconds, but it would be six more weeks before I even knew.
Six more weeks of she and I both fighting for our lives.
Six more weeks of waiting and uncertainty.
Six more weeks of my 1 yr old son asking, "When Mommy was going to wake up?"
Six long weeks.
Summer is rough for me. Lots of memories. My son was born in June and my daughter in August. Today. It makes me wonder what type of young adults they have become. No longer are they the little beings that live in my memories. They have thoughts and opinions all their own and I wonder what they are.
It's been almost six years since I last spoke to her. Since I last heard her laughter. Since I last wiped her tears. I don't write about them to gain your sympathy or to make you feel sorry for me. I accept the consequences of my actions and I wait for the day when she is a mother herself and maybe a bit more understanding. I write so they know I didn't forget them. I never stopped loving them. I write so one day they'll have something tangible to look at and know that even though miles and oceans separated us, they never left my heart.
