The Second Floor

If I walk out of the ICU where Vivian is, take a left down the hall, another left and then a quick right, I would walk through two doors that would lead me to a very different place. A place where there might be pain from contractions, but that pain would soon be replaced by the greatest joy a person will likely know in life. Cries from hungry babies bring smiles to new parents' faces. Every little wiggle and grimace is celebrated. The air is different in the maternity ward. Everything is different there.

In the ICU I feel lucky we are in our own room so I can protect myself a little from the sadness and sorrow that permeates this place. I can focus on my baby covered by her neopolitan striped blankie, her feet in little pink socks. But sometimes the cries of a grieving mother can't be ignored. The whimpering of an innocent child, forced to be so strong at such a tender age takes my breath away.

I know that there are joyful miracles here, too. I think Vivi will be one of them. But it's just hard. Knowing that I'm joining this sisterhood of women who wanted the joy of those first moments of life to last in a different way for her child.

When we walk into the hospital in the morning, it is more than likely that a tired yet glowing mom and her new babe are being pushed out to the circular driveway, waiting for dad to drive up and the inevitable carseat scramble to ensue. We share the elevator up to the second floor with new dads, giddy on that post-birth high. Grandparents swell with pride. The elevator stops, the doors open, but they take a right and we take a left. Each of us walk towards the love of our life. Tiny little people who have our hearts, and whose hearts we will always carry in ours.