The Poet in My Heart

[dedalus_1947]

Wait a minute baby,
Stay with me awhile…
Said you’d give me light
But you never told me about the fire.

Drowning, in the sea of love
Where everyone would love to drown.
But now it’s gone, it doesn’t matter any more.
When you build your house, then call me...

Sarah, you’re the poet in my heart,
Never change, never stop...
(Sarah - Stevie Nicks: 1979)

 “Here Grandpa,” Joe said, extending the swaddled bundle that looked like a loaf of white bread in a striped linen blanket, with a round head of wispy blonde hair on top. “Hold your granddaughter for a minute.”
I looked longingly at the tiny, exposed head, with the liquid, blue eyes that occasionally opened, and lips that moved and pursed in slow motion.
“No,” I said, cautiously, stepping back with my camera. “I think I’ll take more pictures of the baby first, and watch the others carrying her for a while.”
So much for all my big talk about ‘being there’ and having ‘done that’ as a father, with babies! I was the one who had advised Joe not to fear holding or handling babies because they weren’t made of glass and they wouldn’t break. Now I was backing down and feeling very insecure, because I hadn’t held such a tiny, barely 5-hour old infant in my hands and arms in over 30 years, and I didn’t want to do it wrong.
“Well let me hold that little darlin’,” Kathy said, stepping forward and rescuing me from the awkward moment. Joe placed the swaddled infant into the crook of her left arm and stood back to survey the coupling of grandmother and granddaughter for the first time.
“What a beautiful girl, you are, Sarah Kathleen!” Kathy cooed softly, gazing admiringly at the infant. “Yes, you are! You are gorgeous!”
A 5-person tableaux, fanned around Prisa’s hospital bed, moving in underwater slowness. Toñito and Lisa, Joe’s sister, stood off to the back, near the window and sink, Joe and Kathy were at the foot of Prisa’s bed with the baby, and I stood near the door with my camera. Feet shifted from side to side, and bodies occasionally moved, in the confined surroundings of the hospital room, but all eyes concentrated on Baby Sarah, to Prisa, to Joe, and then back to the baby. My worry and apprehensions of the day slowly ebbed as I looked at and photographed Prisa’s proud, glowing face.
“She’s okay, and the baby is fine,” I told myself, over and over, as I moved from spot to spot in the room. I had compartmentalized and locked away all thoughts of the nightmarish complications that might occur in a caesarean section delivery in my head, during the morning drive to the hospital, and through the cold and extended period in the waiting room.  Now they could be cast aside, like out-of-date contingency plans, because my little girl, and her little girl were fine, in good health, and in a safe place. A blanket of calm enveloped me for the first time that day, and I relaxed.

At first, there was little talk in the room, as if we were afraid of breaking the magic spell that brought us so much joy and kept the baby mysteriously quiet. I moved around the room, trying to take pictures of the baby from every angle, and keeping my feelings in check through my viewfinder.
“Her hair is even lighter than before,” Kathy mused, inspecting every inch of the Sarah’s exposed face and head.
“Wasn’t Prisa’s hair that color?” I asked, looking at the sleeping baby through my viewfinder, and snapping more shots.
“No,” Kathy said, shaking her head. “Prisa’s hair was black.”
“I think Joe’s hair was a red color at birth,” added Lisa, Joe’s younger sister, who was impatiently waiting her turn to hold the baby.
Joe was the most animated of the group, describing the events of the day, Prisa’s calm courage before the operation, and the nurse’s comments about the “beautiful blondie”.  He also encouraged Lisa, and then Toñito to hold the sleeping baby. Sarah was remarkably tolerant of the exchanges and the noise, and conversation that slowly built up around her. I watched as the baby was passed from Kathy, to Lisa. When Toñito confidently agreed to carry his newborn niece, I felt sufficiently prepared to imitate his actions.
“I’ll take her next,” I volunteered, looking around the room for a place to put down my camera.

When Joe finally placed Sarah in my arms, I was surprised by the weightlessness of such a compactly swaddled object. I had studied her briefly on two previous occasions that day. Once at 8:15 A.M., when Joe and the delivery nurse wheeled her out of the OR immediately after her birth, on her way to a bath, and then again when they were transporting Prisa and the baby to their permanent room at 12:30. Both times Sarah was wailing at the discomfort of rushed movements, the bright overhead lights of the corridors, and the rattling of the baby carrier wheels on the hard linoleum floors. Strangely, Sarah’s wails actually relieved me, after her initial silence at our meeting. All morning, I had felt worried and uncomfortable in the waiting room, assaulted by the harsh sounds, numbing coldness, and lurking dangers of a surgical procedure. I imagined that for an infant, recently snatched from the soothing embrace of Prisa’s amniotic womb, the new medical environment must have been even more intolerable. At both encounters, Joe’s cooing reassurances to the baby, and the nurse’s tightening and readjusting of Sarah’s swaddling blanket, had soothed and quieted her. Now, since entering Prisa’s room, Sarah was amazingly calm, falling in and out of sleep, even when being passed around to each of the grown-ups. By the time I held her, the swaddling, linen blanket had loosened with each transfer, so I could feel the stretching of her tiny legs and arms, as she moved and reordered herself in my arms. The expansion and contractions of her body with each breath, and the movement of her legs, feet, arms, and hands, in my arms sharpened my senses. I had forgotten how it felt to hold such a new creation. It was amazing! I couldn’t help staring, and foolishly grinning, at the sleeping baby. I embarrassedly looked around the room to see if I was somehow broadcasting my rapturous sensations to others, but they ignored me - leaving me to my first physical contact with my granddaughter.

Then, while gazing on the closed eyes, pug nose, and pursed lips of this wispy haired, little Smurf, the faint echoes of scarcely remembered scenes started whispering in my head. This was exactly how Prisa and Toñito felt in those first days of their births when I carried them! The sensation was like opening an old dresser drawer and discovering ancient treasures that had been carefully wrapped and stored away in a far corner. It was as if Sarah was unlocking an antique chest of long forgotten memories and associations: looking at Toñito’s open face for the first time through the nursery’s viewing window of St. Joseph’s Hospital; seeing Prisa as she was held up to the OR window immediately after her delivery; and watching them sleep and move in my arms, as I held them, or fed them. The births of Toñito and Prisa gave Kathy and me a new lens to view ourselves as individuals, and as parents. Their existence re-ordered our life and our future, and the way we perceived every moment with them. Sarah was doing this again with her new presence among us. I was lost in wonder, until I noticed Joe leaning toward me to take her back.

 Our granddaughter Sarah Kathleen was born to Joseph and Teresa on Friday, November 12, 2010 (or Armistice Day + 1), at 7:57 A.M., in Torrance Memorial Hospital. She weighed 8 lbs and 3 oz at birth, and measured 20 inches. Thankfully the new hospital protocol allowed Joe to bring the baby out to us immediately after delivery, telling us that Prisa was fine and allowing us to see that the baby was healthy. When Prisa was out of post-surgical care, Joe returned to escort Kathy back there to check on her daughter and the baby for herself. At 12:30 Prisa, and her post-delivery entourage, was taken to her permanent room for the next four days, where friends and family members could visit her, Joe, and Sarah Kathleen.

On Monday, the last day of their hospital stay, I visited their room to relieve Joe for a few hours, and keep company with Prisa.  Joe needed to check in on work, and then pick up some things at home that they would need for their departure. This time I didn’t hesitate when Prisa asked me if I wanted to carry Sarah. I held her in my arms for two hours while she slept, noticing how she stretched her arms and legs, and darted her eyes from side to side behind closed lids. What did infants dream of while they slept, I wondered? They surely must dream, I thought, because I witnessed Sarah’s Rapid Eye Movements (REM) at various times during her nap. This was always cited as physical evidence of dream activity. Was Sarah dreaming of that blissful space she shared with Prisa for nine previous months, that place we’ve all forgotten? It must have been a wondrous dream that morning, because Sarah’s face and lips occasionally moved, and I thought I saw the shadow of a fleeting smile. Sadly, I knew she would forget more and more of that place, as her physical senses became more alert and she accepted the material world that surrounded her as the real one. As more time would pass, the more she grew, and the older she became, memories of that original place would become intangible and ethereal, eventually becoming a childhood myth.

 I shared a timeless period of time with Sarah that morning, feeling her breathe and move in my arms, and watching her face and mouth change expressions as she slept. She was changing every second. The newborn infant I had seen 18 minutes after delivery was not the same baby I was holding on Day Four. She was stronger, more concrete, more alert, and more aware of her surroundings. I had learned from my years with Toñito and Prisa that they grew up too fast. I had tried in vain to freeze moments of happiness with them in my mind, but never succeeded except for remembering to take a photograph once in awhile to document the event. I think Kathy and I were too busy mastering the skills and challenges of parenting, education, and careers, to really memorialize every interaction with our children. I think we did a good job caring for them, but I still felt we missed too much. With Sarah, I thought we were being given another chance to relish the innocence of children and witness the wonders of their evolution. So far, I hadn’t DONE anything with Sarah except feeding her a supplemental bottle once, and watching her sleep in my arms twice. Yet I found those experiences to be incredibly satisfying and fulfilling. I don’t think I found them quite so fascinating with Toñito and Prisa as I did now. At least I didn’t remember them the same way. I suppose that the parental worries, schedules, and insecurities of raising babies distracted Kathy and me from the simple joys of holding them and watching them sleep and dream. I began suspecting that without those immediate parental responsibilities, Kathy and I would really enjoy being Sarah Kathleen’s grandparents.

If you are interested in viewing a more detailed photographic record of Sarah Kathleen, I’ve provided a link to my Flickr album of the events of her first week among us: (see 2010-11-12 Sarah Kathleen Arrives) 

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

Beautiful, Tony, That part about the baby "forgetting" and her newborn reality becoming a "childhood myth" is something! Also the first picture of your daughter holding her newborn and looking into the camera is quite special. Prisa looks glowingly beautiful in a very genuine and unadorned way. Your honesty is again impressive and amusing! Now about that book...

TRH

Glowing Prisa

[dedalus_1947]

She's still glowing after 2 weeks! Thanks for the comments, Tommy. I appreciate them. We'll see about "that book" as I challenge myself more.