Last night I lay awake listening to Anaya's breathing. Lately it has become more shallow, more labored. She's been needing oxygen almost 24 hours a day. I was hoping that she would not need it after recovering from her recent illness, but she does. This makes me wonder about her brain function. Is the demylination spreading more into her brain stem? Is she drawing closer to the end of her journey? How many breaths do we have left?
I take her in my arms and kiss her cheeks, reveling in the incredible softness found only there. How can I memorize the feeling? Touching her hand, I feel her chubby little fingers close around mine, and she sighs contentedly. She knows her mama. She's always known her mama. Holding her I walk to the sunshine coming through the window. We stand in the warmth and I hum to her, singing her a sunshine song. We named her after the Sun. "Aya" was an ancient sun god. An- Aya. Perhaps we presumed too much.
She is wide awake now, eyes open, seeking for light that isn't there. I nestle her safely in the crook of my arms and rock her way down and then way up like a swing. When I get to the top her eyes open wide and I see a smile in her eyes. It's like an Anaya-safe version of being thrown up in the air.
Sensing that she has had enough I snuggle her to my shoulder and we press our hearts near each other and melt in the wonder that is the baby-mama bond. How many more days will I get to be with her? The answer is unknowable. I try to focus on the present and enjoy the moments. All the little things still call away my attention. Housework, yard work, business, Solara...even on a Sunday.
I pass my little snuggle bug to the nurse and head upstairs to work on some data entry. I have a deadline to meet in a few days....