Thanksgiving

Reagan was born on November 22, the day before Thanksgiving. I had gone through 27 hours of labor, two hours of intense pushing, all followed by a c-section (which is major surgery no matter what anyone tells you). That, in and of itself, was quite an ordeal.

Thanksgiving morning was not good. I was not given enough instruction about asking for pain medication. Unbeknownst to me, the pain medicine they gave me only lasted 20 minutes - no one told me that. In an effort to get back to some semblance of normal, I attempted to get out of bed and use the bathroom. After all, there was no way I could go home unless I accomplished this feat. Standing up proved to be nearly impossible. Walking was more painful. The rest was just a blur.

In every hospital bathroom they have those cords - the ones marked in red - EMERGENCY. I had often wondered just who had to use those. That morning, I found out. I was not doing well at all and decided my pain qualified me for a tug on the emergency cord. A nurse came in and nonchalantly asked me what was wrong. I explained to her that I was in a lot of pain. She asked a few lighthearted questions and went about cleaning up my room. Minutes later she came back in and saw that my situation had not improved. I continued to sit, sweat pouring down my cheeks. She stated she was going to go get me some medication. While she did she had another nurse come in to "watch" me. Waves of blackness and pain came over me, one after another. I was beginning to lose all control of myself, my surroundings, my ability to sit up. The nurse held me up with one arm and vehemently pulled the emergency cord with the other. I remember watching her through my cloud of pain thinking "that can’t be good." I really truly thought I was going to die. The world was getting darker and darker. Seconds later, the first nurse returned with a syringe. I could tell she had been running. Soon, relief started flowing through me, warming me slowly. It took both of them to carry me back to my bed. Once there, they swung my legs up, reclined the bed, pulled blankets over me, turned out the lights, took Reagan and left. I slept in exactly that position with no interruption. Shortly after I woke up my doctor came to see me and apologized for my horrible morning. I didn’t see how any of it was his fault, but said anyway, "Its okay." His response was "No. Its not. We’ll do better."

As my doctor left, in wheeled this little plastic crib containing my small, brand new daughter. My grogginess from yesterday’s surgery had mostly worn off by now. I was not in pain any longer. And when they asked if I wanted to hold her while she slept, I eagerly agreed. Carefully, silently, they placed a small bundle in my arms. All that was visible was her tiny face, asleep and peaceful. The nurses left us and I stared at her face.

I wanted so badly to say the words to her, but couldn’t find them. They were stuck in my throat. I swallowed them and closed my eyes briefly. It was Thanksgiving. Hubby was at church that morning giving thanks for a new baby and a new little family. I was sitting in a hospital bed, trying to figure out how I was going to stay alive and care for a tiny baby all at the same time. It was daunting and terrifying. I couldn’t even stand up. Caring for Reagan would certainly involve me getting in and out of bed. How would I ever be able to do that? I began to doubt.

My room was empty except for the little girl sleeping in my arms. No one heard me. No one saw the tears streaming down my cheeks. I finally managed to squeak out two tiny words - Thank you. And then it all just seemed so right. In the quiet, after the worst, most painful moments of my life, I heard Him whisper "This is everything you asked me for." I knew He had it planned all along. This was no mistake. None of my tears had gone unnoticed. He shared all of my pain - not just that morning but the years of pain that had led up to it. He had been there. He remembered every tear. He knew the emotions rolling through my heart, even though I couldn't speak them.

All little Reagan understood was being warm, safe, held - and for weeks afterward that was the only way I could tell her I loved her. Speaking it was just too much. I felt like a horrible mother who couldn’t tell her child she loved her. I did. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel like saying it. I wanted to. But the words got stuck and the tears came every time I tried. It simply wasn’t enough to say three words. They didn’t do justice to what I felt. I could only speak in actions.

He never asked me how best He could show me how much He loved me. He never actually audibly spoke those words to me. He didn’t wrap his arms around me in a physical sense. He didn’t pull a tissue out of the box and wipe away my tears. No. He sent his one and only Son - one whom He loved every bit as much as I loved my daughter. He sent Him to suffer and be brutally tortured. He sent Him to die...for me. Oh how He loves us. Oh how much He loves us. And for that, I am so thankful.