Precious Memories

I wrote this seven days after the second stage of Kimberly’s brain surgery, and today is the seventh anniversary of this recollection.

Our Baby Girl

March 8, 2010 at 11:06am

God’s gifts never stop giving, never stop blessing.

 

July 25, 1969: it was just three days prior that God blessed Joyce and me with a beautiful gift, 6lbs. 13 oz., our baby girl, Kimberly Marie. In those days most hospitals treated Dad as unnecessary. I didn’t get access to the delivery, and I could only see Joyce and Kimberly during visiting hours; and Kim was visible only through the big window in the maternity ward. But on July 25th I arrived to pick up my new family from Presbyterian Hospital in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

They put Joyce in a wheel chair and set Kimberly in her arms while they wheeled her out. I brought the car around to the loading zone. Once Joyce was in the car the nurse handed her the baby (no car seats in those days), and we headed home.

Joyce, with Kimberly, exited the car as I brought the bags and flowers inside. Finally the moment arrived. At last the thing my heart ached for could happen. I sat down in our rocker and Joyce handed our baby girl to me.

As I cradled her in my arms I studied her face, her squenched nose and eyes; I gazed for a long time at her ears, noticing the detailed perfection; I stroked the wisp of blonde hair that swept across her scalp. Then with my free hand I picked up each foot, counting her toes (5 on each foot), and marveled at the perfect detail; as if a craftsman had produced the perfect miniature of a human being. I proceeded to do the same with each hand; 4 fingers and a thumb, each with its little nails and knuckles. What beautiful, delicate things, her hands. As I lifted a hand with my index finger her little appendage grasped it and electric joy pulsed through my heart. Wow! I didn’t need words; it was a grip that said, “I love you and trust you.”

40 years and 223 days later, March 2, I entered the hospital, Harborview Medical Center in Seattle, Washington. It was the morning after phase two of Kim’s 22 hours of surgery (Tuesday, March 2^nd) ; made necessary because of a large (golf ball-sized) brain tumor (a meningioma) pressed up against her brain stem. As I walked to our baby girl’s bedside the nurse said to Kim, “Look who’s here. Do you know who this is?”

Kim’s eyes opened slightly as her hand reached out and grasped my finger. “Dad,” she replied.

I never thought I would experience that joy again that I felt on that July, 1969 morning in Albuquerque. The way she clutched my finger said, “I love you and trust you.”

Finally, she didn’t always smile, but nearly all the time…except when she cried which was also nearly all the time???