Gray

September has been an especially gray month. I don’t remember September being this gray in years past.

I admit, though, to having a selective memory. I tend to remember the good stuff more than the bad. My dad can attest to this. He tries every so often to probe my memory for some of the more negatives parts of my childhood (aka my parents’ divorce and the years that led up to it) but I have no memories of the worst of it. All I really remember is the relief that came when it was finally over, when my dad moved out and my mom’s mood was lighter, less stressed than it had been in years.

Ahh, memories.

I was talking to Tom the other day about Olivia’s birth.

I remember that right after her birth, she was moved to a table to my left, almost beyond my sight, several feet away and just behind my shoulder. I had to strain to even see the nurses working on her. There were three nurses over there, all surrounding the warming bed, all of them were huddled there together, working on my baby.

I realize now that they were situated the way they were so that I couldn’t see what they were doing, how hard they were working to get Olivia to breathe.

Tom, though, he remembers more because he could see more. His angle was better, he could move around (his feet weren’t in stirrups) and he could see past the nurses to Olivia.

I mentioned something during this conversation about her color, how we were lucky the nurses worked fast and she’d never lost much color as the nurses worked to help her breathe.

Tom looked at me like I was crazy and said, “She lost a lot of color. She was gray.”

Huh. I think I’m lucky I never saw that. I don’t have that memory hovering in my subconscious, reminding me that we got lucky. I’m lucky that by the time I was able to really see Olivia, they had her lung inflated and she was in some sort of mist, helping her breathe that much better. And she was mad. Her color was much better because she was pissed off.

Don’t we all tend to get a little red when we’re angry?

Olivia was pretty angry for the next six months or so. Who can blame her? She was warm and comfy in that cozy place called the Mama. And suddenly, she was evicted (I was induced because she was nine days overdue and failed the stress-test.) She was thrust into this loud, cold, bright world where people made her do things she didn’t want to do, like breathe on her own, and eat and even sleep without the comfort of mom’s heartbeat. It was a tough beginning but we got lucky.

She got better. She continues to get stronger and how lucky am I that my biggest worry these days is what to take to her school this week for snacks?

Incredibly lucky, that’s how lucky I am.