24 Hours of Bliss

24 hours of bliss--it's how I refer to the time between Vivian's surprising, beautiful birth and finding out about her congenital heart defect.

I stumbled upon this photo on my computer desktop. I don't know if Vince took it, or maybe my friend Jennifer. But you can see the bliss on my face, right? New mama bliss. Nothing like it.

I'm thankful for those 24 hours. 24 hours to think everything was going to be okay. 24 hours to smile so much that my cheeks hurt. 24 hours to enjoy the endorphins that nature provides a new mom.

The pediatrician who checked Vivian out after she was born detected the murmur in her heart. He mentioned the murmur to Vince and me, but was really low-key about it. He didn't unnecessarily worry me with the possibilities of what it could mean. I am beyond-words-thankful to him for that. I enjoyed the day with my new little person, the small hospital room filled with a large collection of friends and family. I didn't think twice about my daughter's heart.

And almost exactly 24 hours later, a pediatric cardiologist walked into my hospital room. I had showered. I was reading a magazine my sister had brought me. I was waiting for Vince to come join me for breakfast. I was waiting for the nursery nurse to bring Vivian to me so I could feed her, snuggle her, sniff her. I was still smiling.

And then this doctor told me my daughter would need heart surgery. She placed a piece of lined yellow paper, torn from a memo pad, onto the bed tray. She had drawn a simple picture of a normal heart with a black ballpoint pen. She folded down a flap of this yellow paper to reveal a drawing of what Vivian's heart looked like. She pointed out all the things that needed to be fixed.

Time slowed. Those friendly little endorphins stopped in their tracks. I cried. I struggled to draw a breath, my heart so heavy with words I didn't see coming.

This poor doctor. She awkwardly tried to comfort me. Me, who moments before was on cloud nine. Now, minutes later, I was pulling in and away. I was going to a dark place.

The doctor left her business card so that Vince could call her when he arrived at the hospital.

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You can probably think of your own moment like this. Or maybe you can think of many.

One minute everything is humming along beautifully. And in one instant, there's a shift. A phone rings, or you open a door, or someone walks in, and everything is different. You are changed. Just like that. And that space of time between before and after is practically undetectable. But you think If only I could grasp it, I might be able to go back to what was. But you can't. Everything you experience from that moment on will be colored by going through that space of time and landing on the other side.

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And speaking of landing on the other side, I think it is safe to say I am doing that. Most of the time I don't fight what is. I don't wish it to change. Because Vivian's here. And she's amazing. She is constantly bringing out the best in me. So if things had gone differently, if that 24 hours of bliss had never been interrupted by the cardiologist's visit, what then?

I'll never know. And most of the time, I'm okay with that.