Eclipse

"So his risk factors for hearing loss are--let me see--how long was he in the NICU?" "Two weeks," Justin says. "Fifteen days," I say at the same time.

"Was he on oxygen?" "Yes. He was on a ventilator, then oxygen till day ten or so," Justin says. "Then they put him back on it for a while near the end," I add. "Seizures?"

"Yes, but not since the first few days." "And gentamicin?"

"Yes and oxygen deprivation--a hemorrhage." "Ok."

An hour later, and he did well--slept most of the time. Electrodes on his head made the room slip away from me. The quiet dark office of the audiologist became a sinister place of spinning as I recalled the bloody mess left behind on his head by the evil needles of the EEG seizure monitoring--his high pitched squealing as they pulled the needles out, the purple marker spots on his soft scalp that I couldn't wash away for two weeks.

But these electrodes are just glue, just sticky and the audiologist apologizes to him as she removes them. "You can wipe this glue off later," she says to me. "Sorry sweetie, it's like pulling off a band-aid," and he barely squirms. "He did great! His left ear is perfectly fine. His right--just the highest pitch at the softest decibel and maybe his ear drums are just too small to test accurately." She pauses, looks at us. "So this is good news!" I look at Justin. He's slumped against the wall. The room is still sinister, still spinning. Justin takes in the good news with a slight smile and a nod of his head.

"Postpartum is a time of miracle and wonder," I saw in a Facebook meme. "A time of panic and fear," I mentally revised. But truly, it is. Truly, his hearing is a miracle.

But the panic, the fear, the panic, the fear, eclipses all still. The miracles are like the sun behind the massive black orb at the end of a solar eclipse. All that light shining behind. The hope is the weak wan sunlight, the rays reaching through. And now I know what it must have felt like to run, panicked, screaming from an eclipse. The certainty that the sun has abandoned us, forever.

Thank you God, again and again.

For teddy's hearing.

hs breathing

his eating

his pooping and peeing

his circulatory system

his kidneys

and please God, give us

his voice

his memory

his thinking

his brain.

Please God, give us his brain.