She walks

 She walks and each blade of grass moves with her.  She glides without knowing her own grace. The world is on her shoulders, but failing, they have stooped.

 One woman cannot carry it all. She had dreams and some she lived. Others fell short and once or twice, life really broke her.
 She loved and was loved. She cried and fought and laughed and even danced, though she wasn't very good at it.

 She sang in the suds and pounced in the puddles. Storms drove her down and rainbows lifted her up.
 Life was long but was going quickly. Soon her skin would show it, her age would be revealed. Her body could never keep up with her mind. The battles between the two had only grown more intense and devastating.

Too many and too much, mostly her own doing. Once the walls had been built and the grounds fortified, she knew there was no hope, no future escape from her own prison. It would never really get better, but continue a long, winding road of struggle just to be. To be and to breathe and to strive, only to find her efforts always falling short.

 Some will call her selfish, wanting to step out of the ring. Others will understand but feel bad and wish impossible wishes.
 All she will know is the price she is paying for her freedom. She doesn't think of what debt others will incur.  All she can see is the finish line, a mirage, so close she can almost feel it. She senses nothing but the finality of her decision.

 She doesn't hear the birds or feel the slow breeze. She does notice the fragrance though; it is surrounding her and filling her nostrils, reassuring her, beckoning. Sage in the autumn, purple spikes flowering toward the sky. Would that it were her final memory but no. There is still the tab to settle.

 Only one way, only one road.

 Falling into the palest green, the cacophony of buzzing and whirring, the stings, like knives, digging mercilessly into her flesh. They come from everywhere but take her nowhere. Her long time jailer should now open the gate to her freedom.

 Too late, she realizes her mistake. The gate was never locked, no key was ever needed. Maybe just a few more falls would have lifted her above the rail. Maybe one last effort would have forced the rusty hinges, opening to a possible hope.

 The fragrance still surrounds her but not a breath of it can she take. All is soft and senseless, laying crumpled in the fronds.

 Her deliverance accomplished, the enemy, or friend, flies on, seeking nothing more rewarding than to live another day.
  

Reagan

There wasn't anything during my pregnancy that would have clued me in to what was coming with my delivery. It was January, 19, 2009. I was feeling some good labor pains and James and I decided it was time to get checked.  We went to the hospital in Provo and got in quickly. We were both excited and nervous. We had done this before and I felt like we were prepared.
After being checked, and realizing I wasn't as dilated as we had hoped, we chose to walk around the mother-baby ward to see if we could get things moving, rather than going home and coming back again later.
The walking did the trick! We were soon in active labor and progressing beautifully. I remembered to breathe and I found a light fixture in the ceiling to focus on through the contractions.
Mom came to be with us and was a great support. I felt much more in control of my pain this time around and was even able to talk and joke in between contractions. I wasn't very nervous or scared anymore, just really excited to see my little boy and to be able to breathe comfortably again.

I got my epidural and it went much more smoothly. I was soon free of the pain and before long it was time to push! The doctor soon arrived and gave me his encouraging smile that I've always enjoyed.
I pushed and pushed, giving it all I had. The doctor and the nurses cheered me on and it seemed like everything was going perfectly, just like my previous delivery.
Reagan James Walker came into the world that day and he was beautiful... and blue. He did not cry. Babies are supposed to cry when they're born. Every new mother knows this. That first cry signals the automatic link, that legendary bond between mother and child that makes the nine months of discomfort, pain, stretch marks, and heart burn worthwhile.
Reagan was not laid on my chest as my first baby had been. A nurse rushed him to the warming bed and in a moment, a dozen people in scrubs rushed into the delivery room and crowded around my new baby.

Not a word was said to me, James, or my mom. I looked to the doctor and he just sat there, focusing on sewing things up. I have never been a patient person and in this situation, that was a huge understatement.
If none of these professionals were going to volunteer any information about the state of my newborn's health, I was going to have to get loud . I yelled to the gaggle of scrubs, demanding to know what was wrong with my son.

Finally, a girl came over to me and very quickly explained that my Reagan was unable to breathe on his own and would need assistance immediately. I asked desperately if I could at least see the product of my labor, even for the briefest moment. A nurse rushed my swaddled little one over to me and I soaked up every detail of his pale bluish gray face. We had just enough time to meet him and take a quick photo.

 It was only a moment but it cemented my love and concern. I was his for life. I was terrified as he was rushed away, crying as James rushed after the group that was hurrying down the hall. All the while, I lay there, petrified with fear and sorrow, overwhelmed with love and desire, the desire to hold my baby close to me. To hug him and cover his little face with kisses and waste not one moment showering him with my adoration.

The doctor finished up his work, left me with a few words of encouragement, and was on his way.
Instead of feeling encouraged or comforted, I waited to be rolled off to my room, all the while having no idea what was happening with and to my son. I was grateful that James was at least able to be with him.  Over the next several hours, James brought me pictures and video of our infant son. I was grateful to at least have that connection. I waited anxiously for any bit of news about Reagan's condition.
It seemed the most terribly unfair thing having to just lay there in my room, waiting. Waiting and waiting.
Finally, I was wheeled to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit, where I stood up from the wheelchair and looked on my tiny little person, my own sweet baby. He wore a diaper  that I didn't get to put on him, and, it seemed, he was covered from head to toe in wires and tubes.

I wasn't able to hold him, I could only touch him and hope that this small gesture, this brief connection, would be enough to make up for what we had lost in the delivery room.
Reagan was not a preemie, like many of his fellow little patients. He was the big boy on the block, weighing 7 lbs  3 oz. I was unable to comprehend why we were in the NICU with a baby that got his full term in the womb. It was explained to me that it was actually a fairly common experience that many other parents shared with us. Lots of baby boys have been born on time and not had their lungs fully developed and ready for the outside world. We were assured that it would likely have little effect on the rest of his life. That was encouraging but did not take away the pain and the longing.
My milk came in and I was not yet allowed to nurse my baby. The NICU was equipped with small stalls where a mother could sit in privacy and watch television while pumping milk into small bottles that would then be fed to my baby by the nurses.  I had small stickers that I was to put on each bottle, marking it as mine. This went on, me visiting the NICU to spend time with Reagan and also to pump, until I was released from the hospital. We were blessed at that time to acquire a sleeping room for me in the NICU. There were only two rooms and I realize how truly blessed I was to get the room and to have the insurance to pay for it.
The next couple of days were mostly a blur of pumping, sleeping, getting phone calls to wake me up when finally my Reagan was allowed to nurse. They would call me every time he was hungry and most times I would jump up and run to be with him. They had a rocking chair for me next to his bed and I would lift him ever so gently, minding all of his wires and tubes, and there I would hold him to me and savor every minute. I was sleep deprived and exhausted but that first time they let me sit and hold him there, it seemed that I had never been more awake or full of energy.

The times after, when I was too empty of strength, so wiped out that I couldn't pull myself out of bed, the nurses would feed Reagan the milk I had already pumped for him. I felt terribly guilty each time I chose sleep, but I was certainly glad I had done it once I got home with him and those respites were no longer an option.

There was a small room in the NICU that provided parents with a bit of nourishment in the form of Lorna Doones, Oreos, and graham crackers with little cartons of milk and juice in a mini fridge. I lived off of those snacks and packed a bunch to take home when we left. :-)
I would wake up, feed Reagan, have some cookies or crackers, maybe brush my hair or teeth, and then pump to make sure that my milk production would be sufficient for my needy boy. I spoke with James whenever possible and he visited when he could. Our older daughter was not allowed in the NICU and had to wait till he came home to meet her little brother.
As the hours and days went on, Reagan's lungs began to grow in strength and ability. He was taken off the breathing assistance. He was able to nurse and breathe at the same time. His color was wonderful and his cries were strong, robust! We knew he would make it and that we would soon be able to take him home to meet his big sister and see the home that would be his.
The day finally came when I was able to dress him in an adorable little blue fleece sleeper and we packed him safely into his car seat.

We left the hospital full of gratitude but with not a little foreboding. We had many things to learn and would not soon sleep well. I was issued a double breast pump to use at home to keep my production up. When I wasn't pumping, I was either catching a few minutes of sleep or tending to my new baby and young daughter.
We didn't dare take Reagan out in public for the first three months of his life. It was winter after all and with his lungs as they were, it would have simply been too dangerous. And so we stayed home until spring. I found that all that close time, the checking on him nearly every hour of the night, just to make sure he was breathing; the days upon days that we spent sitting together, somehow made up for those lost precious first moments of his entry into the world.

He was mine. He is mine. Our beginning together was dramatic and terrifying but it has served to give us a special relationship, a connection that is beyond what I had expected possible between a mother and her child.

My love for Reagan was immediate and overpowering. I knew, after that time in the hospital, sacrificing sleep and sanity would be only the beginning of what I would be willing to do for this little boy.
Every year my love for him has grown. He does and says some of the funniest, silliest things. He gives wonderful hugs and delightful kisses. He can be snotty and whiny and often times he drives me nearly insane. But then, one little look, one lift of his eyebrows as he loves to do, and my frustration melts away. I remember that he worked hard to be part of this world and that with winning that fight, maybe he has earned an extra share of my patience.

 

I love and adore my Reagan . He is a blessing and a treat. It would take me all day to express how much I love him and all the traits I adore about him.
Suffice it to say, he brings joy wherever he goes. His sweet, generous spirit, his friendliness and creativity, his will and determination, all of this and more, make him the wonderful little man that he is.
Reagan is five years old today. He is worth the effort it took to keep him alive and worth the efforts that will be required of James and I for the rest of our lives, to provide for him until adulthood, to be there for him as he needs guidance and support throughout his life.
I don't know why he chose us to be his mommy and daddy, but for five years I have been so terribly grateful that he did.

Happy Birthday, my sweet little Pookie Bear! You are loved to the moon and back and even to the stars!