I've been thinking about the detail that gets, sometimes, overlooked in the midst of all this medical ado: we have a new baby. A girl.
I am not sure yet how I feel about having a daughter. Intimidated. Excited. Overwhelmed. In awe.
A few days after Imogen's surgery, a nurse--she was one of the traveling contract nurses on for the holidays--pointed out two purple marks on Imogen's chest. Ones I hadn't noticed in the tangle of wires and tubes covering what seemed like every centimeter of her tiny chest. "See those?" she asked. "The surgeon made those before the operation, to make sure he got her nipples lined back up--for later. I've been in other hospitals, and they don't all do that." That statement took my breath, as in one sweeping moment I realized not just a worry I hadn't even known to have, but also the weight these surgeries--these awful, necessary surgeries--will carry for the rest of her life. Girl and woman. The perpetual "later" in which a scar will always mark the space between her breasts, well-aligned though they may be. The Later when having children of her own will not be a simple choice.
For now though, for now, I just want look at her and marvel. This girl, my daughter. How strong she is, and how lovely.