Nursing Me Back to Life

I scoop my crawling baby into my arms, cradling his head full of coppery dark hair in the crook of my arm as he signs for milk while making little coughing noises in anticipation of our our nursing session.

Sadly, he’s the only one looking forward to it, desiring the time he spends nestled in my arms, at my breast, me nursing him to nourishment and calm.

I’m busy. I’m scrambling around the house throwing things inside our suitcase as warm salty tears escape my eyes.

I’d gotten a call from my sister just 30 minutes before; she’d told me our dad’s surgery didn’t go as well as the doctors hoped. One specialist said our dad had a 50 percent shot of making it.

I try to swallow the other option, telling myself percentages cannot measure endurance or stubbornness. And certainly our dad had exhibited both in his personal life and professional career. As a captain of his south suburban fire department, I rationalize that he’d been in really hot situations in the past, and he’d always come out on the other side of the flames and billowing smoke. Certainly it’d be like all the other times, I said. Certainly, he’d pull through from an emergency surgery to remove a bowel obstruction.

Baby E. grasps the top of my shirt as he latches on to nurse. His cornflower blue eyes, wide as saucers begin to slowly narrow as the milk starts flowing. The continuous rhythm of suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo, suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo becomes the constant sound in my ears in place of my wildly thumping heart, panicky thoughts and rationalizations.

His chubby little hand begins stroking my chest just below my neck, slow, steady, gentle brushes against my skin, bringing my breathing to a slower, steadier rhythm in place of short, gasping breathes. My body sinks into the couch.

My pulse slows as his nursing does… the rush of the let down has passed and a steady, trickling flow replaces it. Little slivers of blue peak out through drowsy eyelids.

And even though I was in a rush just moments prior, I now want him to nurse just a little longer… gently sweep his fingers over my skin just a few more times … I want the peace to last just a little longer. I linger, my half-sleeping, half-nursing baby still cuddled in my arms, wishing I didn’t have to move him. I carry him to his car seat, quietly, gingerly strap him in, a new calm washed over my body as we drive to the hospital.

It’s moment by the moment, his doctors say.

His kidneys are failing.

His liver is failing.

My dad is fading quickly, but for some reason he’s hanging on. His heart is beating strong.

It won’t let go. Here’s that determination, that characteristic stubbornness at play.

I grip my father’s large, olive-complected hands and try to say everything I need to say. But I cannot get everything out through the tears. I finally have to leave his room, escape to the waiting room.

It’s been a long week, filled with uncertainty. I’ve sat in more waiting room chairs than I can count, my heart constantly torn between two places — his hospital bed and the home that’s housing my boys.

My heart is racing, my eyes are brimming with tears, my muscles shrink and tense. As I stumble to the waiting room, I know I need to pump milk for baby E.

I settle in the chair. I have to close my eyes, pretend my baby is really in my arms until the milk flows. And as it quickly begins to plop into the bottle, my baby gifts me with a calm, though he’s miles and miles away. It’s enough to return to my dad’s bed side and finish laying my heart out to him, all while still hoping he pulls through.

My cell phone rings when we’re minutes away from my mother’s house, minutes away from my boys after spending a long day at the hospital. All I hear is crying and gasps of breathe in between my cousin’s words … He’s gone.

My husband pushes the gas pedal, accelarates, and when we arrive at my mom’s, I rush into the house and scoop up my baby.

He smiles, coos and signs for milk while nuzzling his head into my soft flesh. I cry heavy tears as he latches on, but again find solace in the rhythmic suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo, suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo, suck, suck, suck, swallow, breathe, coo …. suck …. suck … suck … swallow … breathe …. coo.

It’s been a long two months since I’ve last heard my father’s voice, live, over the phone or in person. Grief hits me in tsunami-style waves … unexpected, towering, unbelievable in strength.

I see a little girl place her small hand in her father’s large hand while at the park. My heart sinks into my stomach as I smile back tears. Three-year-old G. is playing on the swings and baby E. is happily playing near my feet, eating dandelions and trying to pick individual blades of grass.

He begins quickly crawling to my feet as the grief hits my heart square in fresh scar tissue. He climbs up my legs, saying “ma ma ma ma ma” and signs milk with his free hand as he steadies his weight on his chubby feet.

I scoop my crawling baby into my arms, cradle his head full of coppery dark hair in the crook of my arm as he continues to sign for milk, making little coughing noises in anticipation of our our nursing session.

But this time, we’re both looking forward to it, desiring the time he spends nestled in my arms, nursing me back to life.

Hyacynth writes about all things motherhood at her blog, Undercover Mother. She’s a lover of words, chai tea, her boys and the God who created it all. Visit her at Undercover Mother.