Lessons for my Unborn Daughter(s)

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me

You are beyond any dream child that I could have conjured in my sleep

I have modeled my life after these words. It is my hope that you will hold them close to your heart and let the sentiment behind these words guide your path as well.

On October 15, 2015 I received my first acceptance to medical school. In the sea of congratulations, I felt this overwhelming desire to tell you my little girl. I got home, and placed you on the floor. “I got into med school!” You ignored me and squirreled away when I attempted to steal a hug from you. I wanted to tell you then all that I will tell you now - that this one day will likely melt into the tapestry of my life, but today...it means everything.

To understand, I have to take you back to the days when I was little, much like you, and I would pretend to listen to my mother’s heart, check her eyes and ears. I cannot remember my mother playing with me as I do with you, but this, the “playing doctor” I do remember.

On September 15th, 2003, my mother and I went to her gynecology appointment. I was 15 but had been translating for her medical visits since I could speak, well used to interpreting jargon-laden medical practicalities into laymen Spanish. The appointment differed little from others; her male gynecologist was especially charming. “She’s going to be a doctor,” my mother said proudly, pointing in my direction. Her physician looked at me with an excited expression. After my mother’s visit, he allowed me to see some slides of yeast and listeria and I was convinced that I would be a doctor, but my dreams of catching babies did not match with the day to day realities of OB/GYNs.

We left the appointment and it had started to drizzle. We were running late for church that evening, but my typical speed racer mother drove at a sluggish place. “The roads tend to be slippery with these first rains,” she said. After what felt like ages, we got off of the freeway. I had not buckled my seat belt, which was a rarity for me. I chose that moment to buckle in securely. My mother looked at the clock and laughed, that final laugh. “We’re actually going to get to church on time.” She eased the car towards the edge of the ramp and our vehicle did not stop. Her driver’s side door was slammed into be a large truck.

I could say more on crying for my mother to wake up, watching the firefighters pry the metal to remove her from the vehicle, watching the EMT pump air into her lungs over and over and over again. I could say more on praying at the top of my lungs while the ambulance driver looked at me as though I was possessed. I could say more...but that is a story for another time. For now, I will fast forward to the ICU lounge, where dozens of families and friends waited to hear of news of the ultimate fate of their loved ones. We formed strong connections with those who shared in tragedy, evidenced by prayer circles filled with fervent calls to our all powerful God along with echoes of hope. We shared highlighted Bible verses and managed to laugh through the pain. I drank a lot of the coffee that always seemed to be in high supply. For a month, I did my homework on these chairs and watched more CNN than I have in the time since then.

I thought long and hard about the words that I should string together to commemorate your first year. No words suffice to tell you about the whirlwind journey that this year has been. I went from nine months of anticipation, loving you even though I did not know you, to knowing you fully and completely. Before your birth, I tried guessing your personality by your incessant activity in the womb. I pieced together my facial features with your father’s in hopes of glimpsing a picture of the baby inside.

Then you were born, my lovely and perfect one, with all of the right fingers and toes, with my nose set against the rest of your father’s features, with my smile. In those first few months, you broke me. You made me think that I had to die so that you could survive. Our days were filled painful breastfeeding hour after hour, your tears as soon as my sleep would come, and the fear that accompanies caring for another life that you love more than your own. I felt as though you took so much from me those first few weeks.

Then you smiled at me, really smiled at me for the first time, and all that I felt was taken was returned to me tenfold. Each day you have given me more joy than I ever experienced in the years before you arrived.

You, little girl, are incredible. You are observant and analytical. Though cautious, you are brave and determination is your modus operandi. You don’t whine, but work and ultimately fight for the things that you want. Food is your addiction. There isn’t a bite that I could place in front of you that doesn’t leave you asking for more. Your laugh is unlike any that I have ever heard, and makes any passersby stop and share in your joy. You are silly and soft and I pray that you never grow hard.

For most journeys in my life, I have always kept my eye on the prize, looked ahead at the next step. With you, all of that has changed, because you are my prize. I don’t care about when you will walk, talk, feed yourself, etc. I am enjoying this moment, right now, because already time has slipped away far too quickly.