F3-Cycle 45

With Love

~This week’s prompt was to write a story about a protagonist’s determination to not be defeated, and what happens to them as a result~

                The trail behind our house that led up to our big barn was one I traveled often as a child. I used to sit for hours with my dad up in his wood workshop. The way he could sculpt and mold his materials into items of such beauty amazed me. The hum of his tools, or the hum of his voice, was peaceful when intermixed with the laughter of me and my two brothers, the only other of my 5 siblings that cared to accompany dad. The bright sunlight would stream through the cracked windows, illuminating the sparkling dust particles that floated through the air. They were always fascinating to me-how they could just hover above me and then fall so serenely to the floor.  

None of us had any idea then the detriment our summers in the woodshop would cause. I found out soon after I had my baby girl. A hefty scientific name was given to my poor respiratory condition, which had progressed through out my high school years, and then, once I had to begin living for someone other than myself, I had to fight for that freedom.

She came 8 weeks early, weighing barely more than two pounds, and being just over 13 inches long. The experience of having her pulled from my numb body was surreal, it felt so odd. My circumstances weren’t normal, and it was a wonder either of us survived at all. She was so tiny, her daddy could hold her in the palm of his hand, and she remained in the hospital for months after her birth.

When the full weight of my problems descended, I remember being greedy for my daughter’s life. She had made it home, and now I was dying. I wasn’t ready. I wanted to live at least until she was 18. The thought, though, was ludicrous. The doctor said if I made it three years, I would be lucky. Numbers and milestones I would never see swirled around my mind. Until she entered high school, when she became a teenager…13 is a good age. No, I thought, even that is hoping for too much. I finally settled on 10 years old. I wanted the bulk of her childhood.

It was that decision, the choice to live for my daughter long enough to make it count, that propelled me on through the worst and weakest times. Several instances I thought I wouldn’t make it. The exhaustion, even while doing nothing but talking, was overpowering. My disease pushed me to my limit, but my daughter raised that bar of just how much I could handle.

Even though I had fight, times were not easy. Much testing and traveling and trials and interviews resulted in my being put on the lung transplant waiting list. Once entered, I was expected to have to be on oxygen for a year before I had a donor. I spent that year being thankful for being able to watch my baby grow. The procedure came and went with minor complications. Luckily, my body took to the one lung they were able to fit in my chest. Eventually, with the aid of much medicine, many people, and countless oxygen tanks, I was able to make it through recovery.

The help didn’t cease for the rest of my life. My daughter was my love. She truly made me happy and made my reasonably short life complete. I remember the night the last ambulance came. I hadn’t been feeling well, and I knew when I was about to go down. Like always, as requested, the ambulance arrived sans sirens, and my husband ushered the men down the hall to where I was sitting on my bedside. They were efficient and wanted no delays, but I made them stop long enough to ask. She was looking on from the side of the doorway, knowing not to come any further. I couldn’t have that, not that time.

“Come here, sweetheart.” I drew her to me for what I knew might be the last. “How about a smile for Mommy?” I asked, desperate to wipe that equally desperate look off her face.

 I knew she was torn, thinking this was simply protocol, that I would be back in a couple days like normal, but also knowing what’s possible. She delivered a pretty smile, though, and seconds later I was on the stretcher watching the ceiling as I was rushed away. The alcoves really needed dusting.

”You have to take care of her.” I dumbly told my husband over and over again. She was all I could think of.

Now, I wake up from my dreams to stare at the pristinely clean white ceiling of the hospital room. At some point my husband starts talking about how our little girl is turning ten today. She won’t be opening the presents I got her yet, though. Her grandparents are with her, so I know she’s in good hands. I don’t want her seeing me like this. I want her memories of me to be free of what I am now. Someone holds my hand as I fall asleep. I wake sporadically with fits of coughing, but only long enough to absorb a few minutes of pain until the darkness takes over again.

I made it, though. I lasted ten years longer than anyone thought I would. I overcame my disease and I pushed forward for my daughter. I am a survivor. I have been strong, and I hope some of that rubs off on her. She, and my love for her, enabled me to accomplish the impossible. I have not been conscious for at least a few days, but I know I lasted long enough. I am grateful, and my last breath is filled with triumphant thoughts, hope, and love for the one who taught me how to survive.

“If God were not entirely fair, how would he be qualified to judge the world?”

Romans 3:6

“And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.”

Romans 8:28