You Smell Like Love

Writer's Note: This week I began Megan Devine's "Writing Your Grief" workshop. I have been writing for years -- journalling, scratching notes on bits of paper, collecting quotes -- and sharing tiny glimpses of the results. I'm aware grief is spiral in nature (to me, anyway), and knew Declan's impending birthday today was going to bring a lot of difficult things to my surface. So I took a deep breath and jumped in. I'm so glad I did!
 
Megan sends us a daily prompt, specific to grief or the process of grief, and several suggestions for how we might begin our writing for the day. Of course, we are not bound to, nor limited by, these materials; we're free to write as much or little as we feel, in any form we choose, in that moment. God, it is freeing. And, sometimes, very dark and scary.

Yesterday's prompt was specific to the "senses" we have around our experience with grief, specifically the smells involved. I knew immediately what I wanted to write about; I just didn't know how. This one took some time, most likely because -- outside of the inner sanctum of my friends, my mom, and my aunt and late uncle -- not many people know exactly what our birth experience was like that day.

I'm choosing to share it here, today, as I explore a deeper understanding of how my grief has shaped me. Please read gently. This one was tough. ~ Julie 


Dear Declan:

I’d know your scent in a crowd. If I were blindfolded, and told to sniff a thousand children – a million, even -- I could pick out that sweet, musky smell that tells me you’re mine… that I’m yours… every single time. I am unsure of most things, but of this I am certain.

I remember getting my very first whiff of you – so quickly I almost blinked – when you were born, eleven years ago tomorrow. The doctor whisked you by my chest, barely allowing us to make contact, in a hurry to get you to the waiting isolette. You made the tiniest noise... a mewl is the only word that truly describes it… because the air they’d put in your lungs was escaping, and you couldn’t breathe on your own. It shouldn’t have been like that, you know. You didn’t know then, but you do now, I’m certain.

I remember other things from that day, too…

The stream of words that came out of the doctors’ mouths, heavy with importance, and yet completely unintelligible to me. The conversations about “best possible outcomes” when, in reality, we were discussing whether I would most likely die, or just be paralyzed from the waist down. The quiet conversations held in huddles in the corner. The knowing looks. I didn’t know, but they did. I just wanted to have everyone leave me alone, and sleep. They knew if I did, I’d never wake up. Neither would you.

I still can see the bright lights above me in the hallway, as my gurney was pushed at breakneck speed to O.R. 2. I remember the freezing infusion of platelets entering my body from an IV needle the size of a Sharpie while they rushed me into surgery, vaguely understanding that I had to tolerate the shivering that accompanied it because my body was consuming my blood cells faster than it could make new ones. I was told they had to “cook” new platelets at sub-zero temperatures, and the timing of their delivery into my body was crucial: the IV needed to be consumed just before they cut me open. This was the only way to, hopefully, keep me from bleeding out during surgery, and safely deliver you. I’m sure I mumbled “okay” at some point (I know we had signed consent forms), but the words had a different taste to them than I expected.

I remember the spinal, done so effortlessly and painlessly that I wondered if it had even happened. But then the nurse told me to move “Now!” and I slid over onto the operating table and lay back as the lower half of my body went numb. They were saying things to me that I couldn’t catch, and all I could see were those damn bright lights above me. I just wanted a quiet, warm corner where I could curl up in the fetal position, and sleep in private. Instead, I knew I was about to be filleted open so you could be reeled into this world.

As I lay there uncomfortably, unable to feel below my ribs, yet feeling with every cell of my being, I was aware of the table being lowered at my head. I thought I was going to throw up, but I couldn’t move. The anesthesiologist said something to me, and I replied, but our words are gone now. Later, I learned they had put me in “Trendelenburg position” because my blood pressure was so high. I didn’t ask the number; I knew it was 202/125 upon check-in a few hours earlier. (How I'd managed to avoid a seizure before arriving at the hospital baffled them. It was one of many miracles that day.) I was scared to know if it had gotten worse. I kept talking to you, and telling you it was going to be okay. I’m sure they thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. I still don’t.

Your dad sat at my head, both of us shielded from the slow dissection of my pelvic contents by a thin, blue screen. I was told they removed parts of me, and set them carefully to the side, to make room for your entrance into the world. I remember your dad needed to leave the room when he saw a “gusher” of blood come out of my body. Thank God I couldn’t see it. I probably would have passed out right then – and I do remember them telling me my only “job” was to stay conscious. God, that was hard work.

When you finally entered this world, at 6:11 pm on Friday, September 9, 2005, the operating room was almost silent. I wondered if I had lost my hearing, but then I heard your dad gasp when he saw how tiny you were, and knew the silence was pregnant with uncertainty and disbelief. The monitor attached to me told us you were alive the whole time, but I was never prepared for how tiny you were. Dear God… I found out later that you were just over two pounds. My Darling Declan, that is almost the equivalent to the amount of butter we used in your birthday treats and frosting today.

We had that brief moment together – you on my chest for a millisecond -- before you were gone from sight, with a full team pushing your isolette down the same hallway we’d traveled together a short time ago. I didn’t see you intubated. I’m told no parent should have to witness that, and I believe it. Odd as it sounds, I consider my absence in that moment a blessing.

It was some time later, after they had made sure I was regaining feeling in my legs, that they wheeled my bed down to the NICU to see you. I remember the nurse starting to tell me your stats, and explain everything to me… the machines, and alarms, and IVs, and the spider web of cords attached to your body. I interrupted her. I was barely able to get the words out, but I remember telling her, “Please… I need a minute. I haven’t seen him yet, and I can’t believe this is happening. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” I sobbed uncontrollably. My mom stood behind me, whispering, “He’s so tiny. My God, he’s so tiny.” Once again, it was almost silent.

I know, even as I write these words, that I sound crazy – but I’ll say them anyway: I swear I could smell you right then and there. You were cocooned in that warm, manufactured womb, closed off from the outside world, so it shouldn’t have been possible. But I could close my eyes and feel every particle of your essence as I inhaled once again. I didn’t dare utter this aloud – or maybe I could have. They probably would have written it off to trauma and shock.

Later that night, once I was back in my private room, one of the doctors came to check on me. A nurse wasn’t far behind him, holding a receiving blanket from the NICU that you had lay on for a few hours. When the doctor finished his monologue, the nurse stepped forward, and offered me the blanket as a comfort – something to hold onto since we were separated. I remember before even putting it to my nose that I could smell you on it. I said something about it aloud, and the doctor quickly jumped in with the fact that it wasn’t possible I was smelling you, because “babies don’t develop their scent for at least a few days.” I was glad I could see the nurse behind him (and it was fortunate he couldn’t), because she sent him the best side-eye, exasperated “fuck off” look, and gave me a knowing smile. He turned and left, and she came close to me and whispered, “Don’t give him another thought, honey; doctors don’t know everything.”

That smell sustained me that night, and for the other ninety-seven I didn’t expect you to live in the hospital. Every time I brought home a load of your laundry to wash, I’d stand at the kitchen counter as I sorted through it, smelling your blankets and “clothing” (if you can call those baby doll-sized gowns clothes). It was comforting most of the time. Sometimes, it made me feel your absence even more.

To this day, that smell takes me back to that very first day. And I treasure it so. Even when you’re sweaty from riding horses, or have sunscreen slathered on your back, and you hug me, I can smell it… you. I can smell you. I’d bottle your scent if I could. I never want it to run out. I want to know it until I take my last breath.

Sometimes when you’re at school, I slip into your room and pick up your pillow or pajamas. I sit down in the rocking chair and hold them, and inhale. I breathe deeply, smelling you and thinking of you. I always say a little prayer for you when I do. There’s something sacred to me in those quiet moments we’re apart, yet I can smell you.

You told me once, years ago, that you could smell me, too. I was surprised such a young boy would be aware, but then you gave it words. I asked you what I smelled like, and you said, “Love. You smell like love.” So do you, Dear Declan. On this eve of your eleventh birthday, you still smell like love.

XO,

Mom