knowing more

photo by stephanie jacobson of whimsy and wilderness photography For now, a moment stolen away from the clammy cold fingers reaching for me from the unknowable and unendurable horror of the future. Usually it's the past that haunts, but it's the future that haunts me.

My husband asks the neurologist, "I saw a study that said with his kind of stroke, it's a 70% chance of IQ of 70 or below?" The neurologist nods, neither confirming nor denying. She says instead, "He will not escape from this unscathed."

Someone said, "You will love him, no matter what."

Of course, you idiot. the problem is--I already do. I want him to have a shot at an unrestricted life. I want the openness of ability for him because I already love him, no matter what.

Someone tells me to enjoy the cuddles now. "Later," they say, "you may look back to this time and realize that it was the only time in his life he could be considered normal. If he doesn't grow much mentally beyond the infant stage, you will wish you had enjoyed the snuggles more..."

Well, that makes it much fucking harder to enjoy the snuggles.

The moon is heavy, three quarters full. The sky looks lit from behind. The snow is melting and mixing with the mud. All three of my boys are crying at the same time, and I, I, I, their one and only mother, am yelling at them while they are crying. And then we are all crying, all of us at the same time till a prayer sneaks in and a glance up to the heavy pregnant moon. Thank you, Lord, you're always there for me. Then there is square breathing and getting the boys into warm bathwater and cookies.

"In four years, we'll know more," the neurologist says today.

In the NICU, they said 72 hours till he is rewarmed, then we'll know more.

We'll know more then.

I counted down the hours till I could hold him and know more. I thought we would know if he was ok then. Three days felt unendurable to hold my baby and to know if he was ok, but I endured it.

On the 3rd day, we did know more. We found out about the strokes on the 3rd day. We saw the MRI, and the bright white careless splashes across so much of both sides of his brain. But I realized with a deep horror that knowing more did not mean knowing if Teddy was ok. On the 3rd day, there was Justin draped over his incubator, sobbing, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, as we came to understand that knowing about the devastation in Teddy's brain was just the beginning of a long journey.

And how do I gather supplies for this journey? How do I endure this journey? Where do I get the stamina from for this journey?

I love you, Teddy. I love you already too much. At three months of life, you have stolen my heart for better or for worse. I love you, Teddy. Your mother tried to not fall in love with you. I was so afraid to lose you. Looking at you in the NICU when we were losing you hurt more than I knew a person could hurt. I had to look away from you. But then we didn't lose you. Against my better judgment, I love you now more than I love myself. I gave you this life and please God, let it be a life you will feel is worth living.

The boys calm down with bathwater and cookies, and then there is nursing and the sun sets while the pregnant moon rises and nobody is crying, and it's the end of another unendurable day.