The only memory

27 April 2012

The first thing I did was cry for a baby that never lived.

I got my wisdom teeth out today. Three troublesome teeth, one of which was so severely impacted and quite abnormally large (at least in my tiny, should've-had-braces mouth) that the nurse said, "Wow, that's a doozy!" and the oral surgeon replied, "I'm going to strongly suggest we sedate you." They put a blood pressure cuff on each arm, asked me questions about my children. With each answer, what I really wanted to say was, "I'm a bit frightened." But before I could form the words my mind kept repeating, my eyes opened in a low-lit room and I felt a hand squeeze mine, "Hey."

And I cried.

This is the only memory I have of that baby, at least a memory that can be repeated. Waking up from anesthesia to husband's hand and word in a somber room, confused and scared and my mouth feels horrible and wow that was fast and where exactly am I? It is the same as it was, six years in between. Back then it took the fuzziness fading to remember why I had surgery and what had been lost.

"This feels like the baby," I said to him today, speaking the very first thought in my fuzzy head, without knowing I would.

I cried a bit, and then faded back to sleep.


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