Page 13 of The Perfect Gift
My arms are splayed out, crucifix-style, IV lines snaking out like lifelines to the various machines surrounding me. Noodles is directed to sit on a stool and to stay behind the blue wall. His hand slips into mine, his grip reassuring and iron-strong. The fear in his eyes mirrors my own.
But there’s excitement. The anticipation of meeting our little girl.
“Are you ready?” Dr. Johnson peeks over the blue curtain. Her eyes crinkle at the corners with a soft and gentle smile. They’re the only visible part of her face, the rest is hidden behind a surgical mask, and there’s a blue cap on her head.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I try to sound braver than I feel. But really? My part in all of this is done. All I have to do is lie here while Dr. Johnson takes our little girl out of my body.
Easy, right?
The procedure itself is a bizarre experience. The sensation is less pain, more of a strange, detached pressure and tugging—like an alien prodding my insides. I clutch onto Noodles’s hand, anchoring myself to the solidness of his grip, and focus on his face. His comforting presence grounds me. And then…
A high, wavering cry cuts through the tension.
The sound of life.
“Congratulations! She’s here.” While I can’t see Dr. Johnson, her voice carries so much joy.
There’s a flurry of activity as my OB team transfers the baby to the NICU team, who whisks her away. Torn between staying with me and going with our daughter, I smile at my husband and father of our brand new baby girl.
“Go with her.”
“Don’t you want me to stay with you?” He looks terrified and excited. Excited to see his daughter but terrified of leaving his wife on an operating table.
“I’m in the best hands. Go with Tabitha.”
“Tabitha? Is that her name?”
The one thing we haven’t discussed is what to name our baby. This cancer thing threw us for a loop. We’ve been so focused on my health that names kind of got pushed to the back burner.
“If that’s okay with you?”
“It’s perfect.” He leans over to kiss my forehead, then follows a technician out of the room to meet our perfect little girl.
Chapter Thirteen
After three days of recovery after my cesarian section, I receive the first round of chemotherapy. When they said we needed to start soon, I never realized how soon we had to begin.
Or that I wouldn’t leave the hospital.
I basically move from the maternity suite to the Heme/Onc service to begin aggressive chemotherapy. Which means I don’t get to see Tabitha.
Noodles keeps me updated, shows me pictures of our tiny daughter, and tells me how Tabitha’s fighting. The steroid shots worked because she never needed a breathing tube or a ventilator. She’s strong. A fighter. And looks so tiny in her incubator.
There’s always someone by my side. Whether it’s Noodles, Skye, Piper, Holly, or Angel, I’m never left alone with my thoughts, or my fear.
My fight is a different kind of struggle. Chemo slams into me with all the subtlety of a freight train, draining the energy out of me, leaving me with a persistent nausea and intractable vomiting, which hurts like a bitch after the c-section. My vibrant psychedelic hair, my signature flair, falls out in clumps.
Finally, when I’m well enough, they let me see Tabitha. The sight of my baby in the NICU, surrounded by machines and monitors, overwhelms me, but the nurses and doctors tell me she’s doing well. She’s so tiny, so fragile, her skin a mottled pink against the white hospital sheets. Tubes and wires snake around her little body, a stark reminder of the battle she’s fighting.
But she is fighting. She’s fighting like a girl and winning at life.
As I reach into the incubator to touch her, my hand trembles. In a macabre sense, a weight lifts from my shoulders. No matter what happens to me, Tabitha is safely delivered into this world, and she’s thriving.
This is all I ever wanted.
Chapter Fourteen
Every day, I grapple with the duality of my existence—the paradox of being simultaneously the strongest and the weakest I’ve ever felt. My body is an ever-changing landscape, shaped by the dual forces of cancer and the chemicals employed to kill it.