Time is a variable

Ready for some more of my dad's wisdom?

When I was younger and complaining about waiting too long for something or that a great vacation was too short, my dad would always say, "You know M, time is a variable." And of course I'd roll my eyes--because duh--time itself does not vary. There's only 24 hours in a given day. It's science, dad. Look it up.

But guess what? I walked into work the other day and a calendar caught my eye, revealing to me that it's almost the end of September. Really? Has it been four weeks since all of this madness started and not 2? Has it been 3 1/2 weeks since I saw my baby's face for the first and last time?

Time is a variable. And it can fast forward and rewind in the blink of the eye.

Labor and delivery seems so long ago, but yet I can close my eyes and I'm right back in the specialist's office 4 weeks ago, sitting across her huge desk with a box of cheap kleenex on it, wearing her white coat explaining to us that the baby had no kidneys or bladder, that there was absolutely no chance that our baby could survive and that now we had to make our decision on how to proceed.

Were we in her office for 5 minutes? 3? 10? I have no idea. Time and space stood still. How many times did she repeat herself? How long did it take for me to speak? It was like there was a pressure in the air that paused everything while the weight of this crushed us. But the meaning of what she was saying was still there. It was clear--this was it.

She explained our options and what would happen with each one and then she sat there looking at us with great concern and sympathy. The other doctor stood leaning on a hutch, saying that we'd talk the next day about what we'd decided. But then there was silence. Were they waiting for more questions? More tears? For us to ask for a minute alone (even though it was her office?) I had no idea what to do, so I just thanked them, stood up, and left.

We walked out of the office together, rounded a corner and collapsed into each other's arms, sobbing uncontrollably. We did this same routine most of the way to the car--arms around each other, almost dragging one another forward to the parking deck.

We tried to collect our selves, but as he started to back the car out of the parking space, I lost it again, sobbing so hard that I started gagging and dry heaving. I opened the door to try to vomit, but nothing came. I pulled myself back together with a clear mission in mind: Just get home.

It's all too vivid and when I think about all that's happened, that's the moment that I go back to--where time and space ceased to exist and where the nightmare began.

What I'd give to rewind to that day and have a different outcome or to wake up one morning and be right back where we left off.