We have a picture from my son’s first day on earth that I stare at frequently; mostly because we have so few pictures from those first days in the hospital but a little bit because I’m not in it.  The picture is dim and a bit fuzzy in that way early 2000s digital cameras seemed to light things in dark corners and rooms, making them look farther away and more depressed.  In it, my husband sits in a chair in a naval hospital room, wood-paneled cupboards behind him, knitted capped newborn close to his neck.  

Most people focus on the baby.  I focus on my husband’s face.

***

I wish I could remember more about her, the nurse who wheeled me from my recovery room across the hall to my space in the ICU.  I think she was younger, maybe in her late 20s, black hair.  I vaguely remember a tattoo on her hand, but also maybe not.  She seemed very good at her job, focused and sure.  I remember she was kind while trying to balance information I needed to know along with assurance that things were ok.  Were as ok as they could be.  Now that I think about it, I’m not sure she ever assured me that I would be ok.  Just that I was where I needed to be.  I don’t think anyone actually believed I would be ok, in the end. I think, maybe, she was excellent at her job, staying calm while believing she may be the one holding my hand when I died. I wish I knew her name. 

She read the panic on my face well and assured me I wouldn’t feel a thing if I were to stroke out.  That was followed by what would happen if I started to seize.  “I promise you won’t feel a thing and I’ll be right here.” Why did that comfort me, while on the precipice?  I’m not sure.  At this point, I was starting to not remember everything.  At this point, I was not understanding every word directed toward me.  At this point, I was slipping.  Fading. My body, breaking down.  Wearing down. Fuzzy.  Hazy.  Nothing.

***

When you look at my husband’s face, in this picture, the worry is evident.  Maybe not to everyone.  I can see how most people who don’t know that when this picture was taken I wasn’t in the room, but across the hall fighting for my life, would simply pass it off as new parent exhaustion. Or overwhelm, if they knew it was the birth of his first and, as it turned out, only child.  But I can see it.  I can see him holding our day-old son gingerly, burping him after feeding him a bottle and holding on just a little longer before giving him to the nurses to rejoin me across the hall.  I can see him trying to juggle needing to be in two places at once, trying to give divided attention, and wondering if he is getting it right.  But mostly, I can see the pain of uncertainty lying directly behind his eyes as he tries to take in every way this happy event turned sideways.

***

I didn’t have a stroke nor did I seize.  But I was tired.  I spent three days sleeping, my body trying to fight and recover.  I also never saw that nurse again.  I’m sure sometime between getting me settled into ICU and when I was wheeled back into my OB recovery room, she had a day off.  It was the weekend by then and I wonder if she left all thoughts of her patients at the door as she wound her way up and out of the hospital parking garage.  Did she pass the zoo and head north?  Maybe she lived south, by the water, and that night while breathing in the salty air helped by a late summer storm, she offered a quick prayer for my liver, for my heart.  Maybe she gave me a quick thought as she took her kids to the park or while she grocery-shopped.  Maybe when she got back to work the next week, she took a full breath when she heard I was fine and home. 

Or, maybe, she didn’t think of me at all and simply squared her shoulders and told the next patient what they needed to hear at the lowest point of their life.  

It was two weeks after leaving the hospital when I met with the doctor who oversaw my case, who drew charts, drew conclusions, drew parallels, helped me draw a breath. It was two weeks after leaving the hospital when I was told, in-depth, of what happened.  It was two weeks after leaving when the doctor sighed and leaned in, confessing from her soul the trauma my body would easily pick up.  Two weeks and she was detailing the papers drawn up and readied for my husband to sign that would release my body.  Two weeks after I left that I wondered if I was ok or would ever be ok again. Two weeks and I panicked as I listened to the words about my case of HELLP syndrome and how it was particularly nasty, how close I had come to death, how I was one lab order away from all hope lost. Two weeks after and I wish I had known, then,  to ask the name of my nurse. I wish I had known that, sixteen years later, I would regret not asking. Not knowing. Not remembering. Two weeks. Memory already fading.

***

I don’t remember when I downloaded that picture.  I’m sure it wasn’t long after we were home, new parents, a baby I still needed to get to know.  I know it was years before my husband said out loud how he was feeling at that moment.  Years, again, before I could stare at his face without tears spilling.  Years, again, until I connected that picture being taken while she resolutely said, “I promise you won’t feel a thing and I’ll be right here.”