All of us have that moment when a memory haunts you. It can be as simple as a flower evoking the image of your father who passed away. It can be that moment when you should have spoke up and instead sat down. The time you drank too much and (insert embarrassing moment here). It could be passing your old high school and being dragged back through time. We all have a memory that haunts us.
For me it is more than one memory.
The memory of walking into the NICU and saw the nurse holding my four-day old child down as she tried to draw her blood and start an IV. The nurses face full of despair and worry as she shouted to her coworkers “GET HER OUT. MOM CANNOT BE HERE RIGHT NOW”. As the other nurse kindly and gently but determinedly removed me from the NICU. At 2am. On day four of my child’s life. I thought nothing could be worse than that moment.
Until the next moment that haunts me.
In the NICU the next day when Bridget began obstructing her own airway with her tongue, decreasing the much needed oxygen she needed.
Or the next…
Being convinced that my baby was stable and my other child needed me at home I left the NICU and drove home at 10pm to bring Abby to school the next day before heading back. Carrie Underwood’s “Just a dream” played on the radio. I began bawling thinking this was just a dream and my baby was not real. I cried the entire drive home, the entire night in my husband’s arms until I grew strong so Abby wouldn’t see my worry. I drove back to the hospital determined the next time I would leave would be with my baby.
Or the next memory…
Getting discharged home and being scared out of my soul that it was too early. Not trusting myself to care for my baby. Not letting her out of my sight or away from my side.
Then…
At only a few months old being readmitted to the hospital for dehydration. Feeling so inept that I could not figure out why my child was vomiting or having such bowel issues. Never knowing that it was an allergy to the formula we were giving her. Giving it so often in the hopes of getting her to thrive rather than finding out we were harming her.
Over the next six years Bridget would give me countless memories that haunt me. After the haunting memory of those first admissions, to have Bridget admitted again this December with dehydration. Having to physically old her as the nurse tried once again restart an IV that failed. Deja vu that brought me right back to that memory of 2008. Except this time I do not leave her side.
Yet all these memories that haunt are overshadowed by the joy Bridget has brought us. The memory of triumph. Of her walking for the first time, jumping and escaping the doubts that were placed heavy on our heart.
The memory of friendship.The children in Bridget’s school who accept her for who she is and not what she “should be”. The children who automatically include her in their celebrations, playtime and routines without prompts from their parents or teachers.
The memory of princesses and fairies. That Bridget hit this “typical girl” milestone. The child I never thought would notice has become enamored over anything princess. Just like her sister was when she was little.
The memory of sisters. A bond I never could have imagined, created or promoted. One that happened organically and has been sustained by their devotion to one another.
The memory of family who have been with us every step of the way. Of the friends who are now considered honorary family members. Of those who have not only become my village but have grown it in ways I never imagined.
The memory of Bridget’s first time dancing on the beach after months of her being terrified of the wind and the sand and the waves. Well general terror over the beach.
The memory of holding my little girl for as long as she lets me. No matter how tired my arms (or hip) gets, I will never deny us this memory. These moments that quiet the haunting and allow me to rejoice.
While in six years I have many (too many) memories that haunt me, I refuse for them to vanquish the memories that shine. Especially when that Carrie Underwood song comes on.
This is how I finished the sentence, the moment that haunts me…
(Un)Diagnosed and still okay 
Perfect. Beautiful. Powerful. Just like you and Boo. Bridget. All of you. All of us. xxoo
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love you. lots
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Oh just beautiful. All of it.
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thank you, Lisa for stopping by
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This was so beautiful.
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Thank you, AJ I appreciate that
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Such a beautiful post, and lovely way at looking at the joy your daughter has brought you despite the struggles!
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Thank you. She really is beyond a joy not in-spite of her struggles but maybe because of them.
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Lovely and evocative. Your memories brought back memories for me. 🙂
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Thank you. I hope they were good memories.
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Wow – tearing up over here. This was such an honest and heartwarming post. It brought me back to the hospital room where the youngest of my twin nieces was struggling to survive. And survive she did.
And yes, I absolutely loved the video of your B dancing. Magical.
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Sorry about that 🙂 My SIL just texted me and said I should have put a Kleenex warning on the post. I seriously wasn’t sure where I was going with the prompt it sort of evolved on it’s own. Survival always trumps haunting in my book. I’m happy your niece flourished.
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Such precious photographs. Time brings perspective to me. Terrors have turned into triumphs. Thanks for the beautiful reminder as I walk through some unknowns right now.
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Thank you, so very much. I am sorry you are going through some unknowns. That has been the most difficult part of our journey with Bridget.
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Oh my heart…I’m so, so, FOREVER glad that you got to end on princesses and Bridget dancing on the beach, and a new blog title, and a NEW village, extended to include people who also love someone with PACS1, and….honestly, I’m so glad to know you, and Bridget, even a tiny bit, and to watch her THRIVE, through your words and your telling.
Thank you for this blog.
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This has been a tough ride for you, Kerri. Just as a diamond shines bright after so much polishing…you and your family will be out of it shining bright and confident!
You are a strong woman, and I admire you. Glad her sis is like her guardian. Gonna take this ride of PACS1 till the end, my friend!!
xoxo
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I had a similar experience with my eldest…they couldn’t find a vein. He was five days old. It was horrifying. I almost smacked the nurse. Hugs mom. Let go of those and hold on to the good ones.
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Gorgeous and teary here over similar memories of pink sparkly things ad sisterly love xx
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You made me cry. Sad tears, for all that you and Bridget have endured. And happy tears, for everything else. For life, for dancing on the beach, for tired arms. For the internet, that brought you and your family into my life. Love you!
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Kerri: I understood your pain at the beginning of the post, but joined with you in the positivity of Bridget’s growth as a person and as part of your life. Thanks for sharing Bridget with us, and best of luck with PACS1 Awareness Day (my post is live at my blog if you want to see it!)
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What a beautiful post!! Painful memories never fully go away, but it is the positive ones that stay with us the longest.
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I think so many of us focus on the pain, my goal every day is to focus on the positive.
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So eloquent and stirring of emotion. Thank you for sharing your brave journey. Just beautiful!
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Thank you, Jackie. It was difficult to write at first, but then when I thought nope not going to focus on the haunting it got much easier.
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