But I can't. I remember holding my little girl down screaming in terror while they did some tests on her. I remember her having anaesthesia for the umpteenth time, scared out of her mind. Once they gave her dormicum to calm her down and make her sleepy. It made her high! She was so funny.
I remember sitting in front of the PC (before I had a laptop), in the freezing cold, 1am in the morning, blanket wrapped around me, my hands blocks of ice. Reading up on tethered cords and people's experiences with it. Night after night after night. Wanting nothing more than to find a way to help get my daughter diagnosed.
I remember contemplating selling our car, so that we could afford tickets to America so that we can see a specialist there. I remember crying desperately, wishing my mom was still alive. Because I didn't know how to get through it all without her. I remember sitting in one doctor's office, looking at his eyes filled with tears, refusing to cry with him, when he begged me not to let anyone cut my baby open. I remember looking at my daughter with such pride when she laid completely still for the MRI. Apparently, the technician has never had a child that young, lay that still, for that long.
I remember a doctor looking me in the eye, telling me that both me and my daughter are lying. I remember looking back, in his eyes, telling him we're not. And for him to discard that as easily as I did when my daughter was 4. I remember this same doctor eating his own words when he saw her test results. It made me feel empty, not happy as I thought it would. Because I'd rather he was right.
I remember my daughter saying No no no no when they gassed her for the operation. I remember sitting in the waiting room. Another waiting room. So many, many waiting rooms. They're all the same. Cold. Empty.
I remember forcing myself to eat while they cut her open in theatre. To drink. Eyeing where the nearest bathroom is, because I thought I'm going to vomit. I remember my surprise and relief when they wheeled her back from theatre, and she wasn't just okay, she was wide awake and alert. I remember my elation when she asked me what's around her big toe. We were so scared that she'd loose feeling in her legs. I remember the moment she said her head hurts. The way my stomach dropped in my feet. It was the one thing I didn't want her to go through. I had experienced epidural migraines. I couldn't face thinking my baby had to go through that.
I remember her being violently ill. I remember our panic when the nurse couldn't get hold of the doctor. I remember the pastor coming into the room. He brought peace with him. I remember knowing that now she'll be alright, once he prayed for her. And she was.
I remember the days and nights spent on that awful chair next to her bed. I remember feeling guilty for not playing with her more. For not entertaining her every second. But I was in robot-mode. I could barely keep it together for myself. I had nothing more to give after days and days. I remember seeing my sister walk into the hospital room, and the lightness she brought. I remember her contagious happiness. I remember the way she got my daughter to stand and walk for the first time days after the operation.
I remember how Monkeyman missed his sister. I remember how even Mr N admitted to missing Boeboe. I remember how happy they were when they were at the hospital. As if their world were complete. I remember trying to play ball with them at home one afternoon. Laughing, joking, teasing them, being happy. I remember it all being fake. I remember the tears in my eyes they didn't notice. I remember the pain in my heart they knew nothing about.
I remember my daughter being in so much pain, that she didn't move an inch for 72 hours. I remember the bedsores on her back, bum, heels. I remember how it hurt when they had to turn her around to rub them. I remember how she screamed when they had to take the IV out. I remember my daughter being so scared and alone in the ICU bed on that first night. I remember saying goodbye to her. I remember walking out of the hospital, leaving her alone there. Exactly as I did when she was a tiny new born in NICU. I remember feeling exactly as guilty.
I remember too much. I can't isolate the hurt and pain, from the happiness and elation. I remember the relief when her symptoms lessened after the operation. I remember the elation when she walked that first time. I remember the stress falling away while walking to the car, my daughter being pushed in the wheelchair. I remember walking into the house with her, 9 days after we left it together. I remember it all. Every emotion. Every feeling. It's too much. Two years down the line, and it's still too much. So yes, I remembered it all this past weekend, on the 2 year anniversary. But it still hurts. I wonder how long will it keep on hurting?
I remember contemplating selling our car, so that we could afford tickets to America so that we can see a specialist there. I remember crying desperately, wishing my mom was still alive. Because I didn't know how to get through it all without her. I remember sitting in one doctor's office, looking at his eyes filled with tears, refusing to cry with him, when he begged me not to let anyone cut my baby open. I remember looking at my daughter with such pride when she laid completely still for the MRI. Apparently, the technician has never had a child that young, lay that still, for that long.
I remember a doctor looking me in the eye, telling me that both me and my daughter are lying. I remember looking back, in his eyes, telling him we're not. And for him to discard that as easily as I did when my daughter was 4. I remember this same doctor eating his own words when he saw her test results. It made me feel empty, not happy as I thought it would. Because I'd rather he was right.
I remember my daughter saying No no no no when they gassed her for the operation. I remember sitting in the waiting room. Another waiting room. So many, many waiting rooms. They're all the same. Cold. Empty.
I remember forcing myself to eat while they cut her open in theatre. To drink. Eyeing where the nearest bathroom is, because I thought I'm going to vomit. I remember my surprise and relief when they wheeled her back from theatre, and she wasn't just okay, she was wide awake and alert. I remember my elation when she asked me what's around her big toe. We were so scared that she'd loose feeling in her legs. I remember the moment she said her head hurts. The way my stomach dropped in my feet. It was the one thing I didn't want her to go through. I had experienced epidural migraines. I couldn't face thinking my baby had to go through that.
I remember her being violently ill. I remember our panic when the nurse couldn't get hold of the doctor. I remember the pastor coming into the room. He brought peace with him. I remember knowing that now she'll be alright, once he prayed for her. And she was.
I remember the days and nights spent on that awful chair next to her bed. I remember feeling guilty for not playing with her more. For not entertaining her every second. But I was in robot-mode. I could barely keep it together for myself. I had nothing more to give after days and days. I remember seeing my sister walk into the hospital room, and the lightness she brought. I remember her contagious happiness. I remember the way she got my daughter to stand and walk for the first time days after the operation.
I remember how Monkeyman missed his sister. I remember how even Mr N admitted to missing Boeboe. I remember how happy they were when they were at the hospital. As if their world were complete. I remember trying to play ball with them at home one afternoon. Laughing, joking, teasing them, being happy. I remember it all being fake. I remember the tears in my eyes they didn't notice. I remember the pain in my heart they knew nothing about.
I remember my daughter being in so much pain, that she didn't move an inch for 72 hours. I remember the bedsores on her back, bum, heels. I remember how it hurt when they had to turn her around to rub them. I remember how she screamed when they had to take the IV out. I remember my daughter being so scared and alone in the ICU bed on that first night. I remember saying goodbye to her. I remember walking out of the hospital, leaving her alone there. Exactly as I did when she was a tiny new born in NICU. I remember feeling exactly as guilty.
I remember too much. I can't isolate the hurt and pain, from the happiness and elation. I remember the relief when her symptoms lessened after the operation. I remember the elation when she walked that first time. I remember the stress falling away while walking to the car, my daughter being pushed in the wheelchair. I remember walking into the house with her, 9 days after we left it together. I remember it all. Every emotion. Every feeling. It's too much. Two years down the line, and it's still too much. So yes, I remembered it all this past weekend, on the 2 year anniversary. But it still hurts. I wonder how long will it keep on hurting?
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