She was born on a Saturday.
She was 4 pounds 9 ounces.
She was small, but not as small as I expected.
She was having a little trouble breathing.
The wood finish in the delivery room was scratched and a bit outdated. There was a decent view of the city from my window. I remember many faces in the delivery room. I can hear the calmness in the voices that kept telling me what to do and what was happening.
But it was the very last second. That final push. That is what I remember most. Because she was here and in that very second, everything changed. My life changed. My family changed. My cancer changed.
And most importantly, my fight changed.
This is what a year of life has given me.
Motivation: even on the worst of days, there is a baby that needs me. So there is no time to crawl up in bed and feel sorry for myself. She makes me push myself. As hard as raising a baby while battling cancer can be, I constantly think: what if I had to do this without her? What would make me get up and fight?
She has also motivated me to be a better mom to Emily and Will. She is a constant reminder that no matter how old they are, my kids still need me. Thus, they too make me get up and fight.
Mindfulness: throughout my constant research on how to battle cancer or alleviate symptoms, I kept coming across mindfulness. Doctors recommended it to me when I first got diagnosed. UPenn even offers seminars on it, and some of the literature I've come across has suggested it. In the beginning, when I was still pregnant I attempted my own version of mindfulness, but I could never shut off the constant buzzing in my head and it would overtake me and I'd be in a state of panic. Basically, the quiet or the "being in the moment" was a surefire way to light up the neon cancer sign in my head.
Sam changed this.
I am so aware of the moments with her. The simplicity of it all. There isn't a day that goes by that I am not in awe of Sam. It could be the flecks of color in her eyes, or the soft raspiness in her whispers,or every morning when I walk into that nursery and she smiles at me. I melt.
Every single morning.
Starting over: Sam was a total surprise but at one point we entertained the idea of having another kid. Or more like I entertained it and tried to prove why it was a good idea. If mentioned amongst friends or acquaintances the same statement kept coming up: "you would have to start all over again." People would say this with such dread in their voices. And I never understood this. Yes, I would have to start all over again. Isn't that the point? I know they were focusing on the negatives but all I could see was first steps, first words, and getting the privilege of loving another human being unconditionally.
I am head over heels with starting over.
Reinforcement: I have to be honest. Even before my diagnosis I feared how this baby would change my family dynamic. Would Emily and Will feel slighted by a new baby? Would I still have enough quality time with the two of them? We had a good thing going. Did I just mess it up?
Sam has become a reinforcer. She has made our family stronger. For starters, she makes us spend more quality time together and pares things down. Family moments are simple. There is conversation, lots of cuddling, and lots of smiles and laughter.
She reinforces my love for Emily and Will. She is a constant reminder of what they were like as babies. It's like a really cool rewind button. I am constantly reminded of memories and milestones that happened over a decade ago. What's great is that I get to share these memories with Em and Will. I am constantly thinking that it felt like yesterday that they were babies and now they are 12 and 13 and on the verge of adulthood. I am so proud of the people they have become. It blows my mind that they are my children. They were wonderful when they were just wee little children and they continue to grow more amazing with each passing year. Plus, they show me something I never thought I'd experience: their love for Sam. Seriously, it's awesome to see how they interact with her. They are so in love with her and she with them. If you ever want to see the greatest thing on Earth, watch Sam's face when one of them walks into the room.
And then there is her father. When we were just college roommates I asked Billy what he wanted to do with his life. His answer: I want to be a dad. I was baffled by this. Mostly because back then the thought of having children terrified and repulsed me (I've come a long way). But he was so sure of himself and he made me realize that someone who thought of building a family more than building a career was bound to be a great dad. He is not a great Dad. He is the best Dad. And now I get to watch him help mold yet another human into an amazing person. It makes me fall in love with him even more.
Balls, muscles, grit, or whatever the hell you call strength these days: I know some people are not keen on saying they are "battling" cancer but I am totally okay with this phrase. Because, shit, I don't feel like I'm dancing with it or holdings it's hand. It's a fight. I am Rocky Balboa. I may not be the smartest or have the best resources but I'm going to give it my all. I'm going to chase a chicken around or punch a slab of meat because that's all I've got. I'm just realizing that in comparing myself to Rocky, I'm saying that my one year old is my metaphorical Mickey. She's a dead ringer for Burgess Meredith. Okay, where am I going with this? It's a stretch, but I feel like she is in my corner making me fight harder. At the end of the day, I may be beaten down but that little peanut is going to make me work even harder the next day.
Distraction: she has been the greatest distraction of all time. And not just for me, but for everyone around me. She brings smiles in times of sadness. She makes people focus on the good in this world. She gave people a way to lend a hand, be it building her a nursery or taking a babysitting shift. What better way to sweep the idea of death under the carpet than with the gift of a new life?
Resuscitation: Sam brought me back. The day I had major surgery to remove numerous tumors I detached myself from the baby living inside me. Doctors informed me of the many things that could wrong, ranging from having a severely disabled child to losing her completely. They waited a day to check for a fetal heartbeat because the anesthesia would have a longer effect on her. The second they put the ultrasound wand to my belly, she kicked. But as much as I don't like to admit it, I had already checked out. I didn't want to have a baby with issues. At this point in time I was trying to wrap my head around the idea that I most likely only had a few months to live. And I was suffocating on the thought that I was not only leaving Billy to raise our two children, but I would be leaving him with a baby who would most likely have lifelong health problems. So I detached myself from my unborn baby. I couldn't handle the pain. The pain of bringing a child into the world only to suffer. The pain of falling in love with her regardless of the situation, and then having to leave her. The pain of never hearing her say "Mamma". A close friend caught on to my detachment and called me out on it. Even though I had lost my excitement, Emily was beyond thrilled at the idea of having a baby sister and I was holding her back from experiencing this joy. That's when I agreed to allow my coworkers to throw me a baby shower. A team of great friends took Emily in and let her run the shower. She was in her glory and the outpouring of gifts, love, and support made me realize that I had to snap out of it. I slowly started to come along as we organized baby items and her nursery was nearing completion. But it was Sam who resuscitated me. The second she was born something happened to me. It was physical. Like it was out of my control and the animal instinct in me was taking over. The doctors let me hold her for about 5 seconds and then began examining her and giving her oxygen. She had swallowed a good amount of fluid and they prepared me for the fact that putting her on a ventilator was a big possibility. At that moment, I needed her to be okay. Because, simply put, I was in love with her. Those 2 1/2 weeks she spent in the NICU were intense. Every minute away from her felt like knives in my chest. When the nurses let me hold her I would constantly inhale her smell, hoping that it would linger when I left for home. I simply could not get enough of her.
She brought me back to life. She made me connect. She made me want to fight like hell.
Hope: I don't know what the future holds. With each ache and pain, with each falling strand of hair, with each round of chemo...death is there. I cannot escape it. I can try to plead with it or cross my fingers really tight, but there is no way of knowing. I know the natural thing for me would be to wish for a cure. Yet not once have I ever wished for that. I have only wished for one thing: more time. I just want more time. I want to see her grow. I want to love her more. I want her to know that she is loved. I want to see how the adult Emily and Will interact with her. I want to hear her say she loves me. I want more time. I am completely helpless against fate. All I am allowed is hope.
Joy: and then there is this one. Sam has brought me joy. I'm not talking opening a great gift on Christmas or having your team win the Super Bowl. I'm talking about the purest most beautiful form of joy there is. The kind of joy that makes you smile so hard your face hurts. The kind that makes your insides feel giddy and at times like you just might explode. The kind of joy that makes you look past the darkness and see the love and light that we humans are capable of.
This joy is overwhelming.
It is intoxicating.
It is addictive.
And it is never taken for granted.
Gratitude:
Dear Sam,
Happy birthday and thank you.
You have no concept of the love that surrounds you.
You have been the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
You have brought the best out of me and all those around you.
You cannot fathom the joy you have given me.
I am so grateful that you walk this Earth.
I cherish every second I have with you.
I love you.