Something is missing. I can’t help but feel that way each time I change Sammy.
I am so used to seeing Bekah’s faint little open heart surgery scar on her chest that now I feel like something is missing when I see Sam. It’s strange that I think of Sam as the one with something missing, instead of Bekah as the one with something extra.
The truth is, I’ve loved that little scar from the first moment I saw it, from before it even qualified as a scar, and was still an incision. That now, barely recognizable little line symbolizes some of the best and some of the worst days of my life. It is 10 weeks in the NICU, 6 weeks at home on a heart/lung monitor, the hours of open heart surgery, 10 days in the pediatric ICU, and countless, sleepless nights.
It is thousands of tears, and thousands of prayers. It is a symbol of making new friends, and suddenly understanding what it’s like to love someone more than I ever thought possible. It is the first time we gave her a bath, the first time we held her, the first time we fed her.
It is medicines around the clock, and then no medicine at all. It is placing trust in someone else to care for her, and learning how to care for her ourselves. It is brokenness, healing, and wholeness.
That tiny line represents more than it’s possible to express in words, and only Bekah has that. Those memories belong to me, and Chris, and Bekah. They are all hers.
I know that we will make memories (hopefully not quite so scary) with Sam, and we already love him just as much as Bekah, and in the last 2 months she’s done a great job of sharing our attention, but 2 years and 3 days of our lives belong just to her, and that, like the faint line over her heart, won’t change.
Read the rest of the Plant family’s story through her blog, Following Your Heart.