“Helena Grace,” I breathe, part in awe, part in relief.
A love second only to that which I feel for my wife courses through me. For seven months, I’ve wondered how I’d feel about this baby, about this parting gift from the love of my life. Would I be able to love it like she’d want me to? Would I see it as a reason that my wife is gone? Would I resent it?
Now I know.
Now I know the answers to all those questions.
Yes, I will love my child as Lena would want me to. That’s the only answer I need. The other questions seem ridiculous now.
As I stare down at the sweet little life in my arms, I know what the adoration of parent for child feels like. I know how it invades the hidden spaces and stretches them wide. I know how part of my heart has been lying dormant, hibernating, waiting to beat for a face such as this.
Grace makes some cute gurgling sounds, her face all screwed up like she might cry, but then she snuggles toward my chest, like she’s snuggling in for a long, quiet nap.
Love and warmth pour through me.
I hold her close and gaze down at her, willing her to open her eyes. I don’t know what to expect, only what I’ve been hoping for, what I’ve been praying for.
Then, as if she just wants to put my curiosity to rest, Grace lifts her lids and shows me that my prayers have been answered. Staring up at me from the tiny face of my little girl are my wife’s eyes. Although they’re an indeterminate color right now, I don’t have to see the color to know that they’ll be just like Lena’s.
In this very moment, in this split second of a life measuring forty-two years thus far, I know I’m a goner.
If I hadn’t known it before, it’s clear the instant Grace looks up at me with eyes as familiar to me as my own. I know without a doubt that I can and will love this child enough for two parents.
“I love you already, baby girl,” I croon, curling the little bundle toward my face so I can kiss the sparse, damp, blonde waves that top her head.
“Nate?”
The sweetest voice speaks my name. I don’t have to turn and look at Lena’s face to know what I’ll find. Her heart will be in her eyes. I know it. I can almost feel the happiness, the fulfillment in them like a warm trade wind rolling off crystal-blue waters, filling all the recesses of my soul.
Overwhelming gratitude gathers around my vocal cords, choking off any words I might’ve said otherwise, drowning out the raw, bleeding love that’s spewing from my heart. So rather than speaking, I move slowly toward my wife and lay my little bundle across her chest, pressing my cheek to Lena’s as she cries.
“Thank you for her, Nate,” she mutters, sobbing softly over our child. “She’s perfect. She’s my perfect little miracle.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
She is.
She is perfect, and she is a miracle.
As I take out my phone and start recording this moment, I wonder, with a heart never happier yet never more aggrieved, if Grace will be the only miracle the two of us will be fortunate enough to get.
Twenty-two
Blind Love
Nate
Lena has dozed off and on since delivery. I saw Dr. Taffer talking to Dr. Stephens in the hall right after we were brought up to this room. And just a few minutes ago, a nurse brought Grace and helped Lena to feed her for the first time.
Someone might as well have had a knife, twisting it in my gut. That’s exactly what it felt like to watch my beautiful wife put our beautiful child to her breast. There is no doubt in my mind that I will never see anything more breathtaking than the two of them together.
I’m positive I’ll never forget Lena’s expression either.
Her world is complete. This is all she’s ever wanted–for us to be a family—and she got her wish. It’s there in every loving line of her face—the awestruck gaze, the curved lips, the smooth brow. She’s whole.
And I’m whole merely watching them.
The scene was absolutely perfect until Dr. Stephens came in to check on Lena. With her, she brought the first niggle of unease to my mind.
“Looks like momma and baby are getting acquainted,” she says with a placid smile. “I’m glad she latched on quickly. I think it’s important to breastfeed her for the first day or two. Get as much of that colostrum in her as you can before we put her on formula.”
“Formula?” I ask.
Dr. Stephens turns her never-wavering smile toward me. “Yes. Considering some of the medications Lena will be taking, her breast milk won’t be safe for the baby.”
I say nothing.
Although my mind is spinning with questions, I don’t want to ask them now. Not at a time such as this. To disrupt this precious moment, the time when Lena is first feeding and getting to know our child, seems tantamount to sacrilege. So I stand silently by the bedside, processing the doctor’s words, my dread growing, until Dr. Stephens turns back toward Lena.