Of all the parts of that day, what stands out to me most—what comes echoing down the halls of time thundering through my soul too threatening to be ignored—is the silence.
She was born into silence.
There were no cooing and chatty nurses, like those who had wrapped and cuddled my earlier babies. There was no smiling, laughing doctor greeting her with open arms.
There was silence. There was dismissiveness. There was a curt, “The baby is in distress.” There were hushed whispers and turned shoulders. Closed circles. Averted eyes.
There was immediate recognition and desperate glances. Gripping fear and searching faces. Words—a diagnosis that I KNEW was ours, but I COULD NOT SAY out loud. For days. Because neither could they.
They taught me fear and shame in a matter of seconds. Instants that burn in me still. Both in pain… and in purpose.
Because as surely as I knew what “it” was, then, I know who SHE is, now. And I wouldn’t trade her for the world.
I wish I could go back. To that mother that was me being born by fire in that delivery room. I wish I could hold her hand like she deserved and look her in the eyes and labor with her through that transition into Holy Advocacy…
I wish I could be the Voice in the room that cleft the Silence.
A voice to leave it bruised and bloody on the floor, powerless to wield its painful lies, again.
A voice of truth, and encouragement, and hope, and promise.
A disabled child’s mother’s first cry.
