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January 5, 2012

I told very few people about it. It was so joyous and so heartbreaking at the same time. I want so badly for someone to understand exactly what this feels like. For someone close to me to really truly get it. At the same time, for them to really understand it, they would have had to have lived in this deafening silence. They would have had to have ridden this roller coaster on their own. Every day a rise and fall and a careful measure of progression and regression. They would have had to have lived in this vast cavern of empty silence, so pregnant with raw emotion and always on the edge of victory and catastrophe. How could I wish that for someone?

When it happened I realized immediately that it may never happen again. I found myself absolutely immobilized. I was so angry that something so simple could put me into such a tailspin of emotion. Why should this be so hard that it should be so meaningful. Beautiful that I should be “witness to a miracle and know it.” Infuriating at the same time that I could not just take it for granted like so many other parents. It should be pure happiness, but not something to obsessively occupy my heart and mind every moment since.

I was paralyzed by joy and fear, elation and devestation. Each miracle, cause for immediate celebration, and then the sudden fear that we will find ourselves chasing that moment down over and over again, like a junky chasing down that first high. I could not utter the words to anyone without choking up with emotion. So many emotions.

I shouldn’t have been so surprised or angry at the matter of fact reaction from family members, “oh that’s good…” Why weren’t they crying and praising God? Because they don’t get it. They haven’t traveled this road. And a part of me doesn’t want them to get it. Such an intimate joy that really must be earned. I suppose I shouldn’t need to share that. It should be mine. But, much like a brilliant diamond ring, it was something so intimate that I also wanted to flash it at anyone who walked by, blinding them with it. But I couldn’t. It wasn’t on display. It will probably be months before it ever happens again- if it ever happens again.

Mine alone.

Mine to experience.

Mine to celebrate.

Mine to struggle with every minute of every day.

Mine to worry about.

Mine to cherish.

Maybe one day mine to share.

One week ago today, at 4:32 pm, she said “MaMa.”

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