Of Stars and The Starry Eyed

About This Author

A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!

Of Stars and The Starry Eyed

Had a rainbow baby long before
I knew what they were
or that they were a thing at all.

Any mom who loses a child
understands
the overwhelming grief
of losing that child
before they got the chance
to know all that it could become.

Wonders
'what they did wrong' or
if this
or that
might have
made a difference.

Twin boys at four months--
no words. There are no
magic words to fix or heal
or make the pain
go away.

We made love because
he was trying to make me feel again.
I wanted neither to feel
nor was I feeling lovable.
I couldn't conceive
of being in that place--
I'd just lost twins.

That one time
must have been magic,
the fates must have aligned.

Nine months of frantic worry.
Of wrapping myself in cotton batting.

First words out of my mouth
were: fix her.
They hadn't said she was a she.
I knew. I also knew
she was blue-black and something was wrong.
Fix her.

Three times
too many red blood cells.
Zero blood sugar.
Not enough air
to change blue to red.
Five percent chance of her living;
if she did, less than five percent
of being anything
more than a vegetable.
(Doctor's words -- not mine)

Not again.
What was wrong with me?

I needed to see her.
But they wouldn't let me.
I didn't want her to die alone.
I didn't want her to die
before she lived.

My husband, now ex, left.
I was left alone
in my fear, self-doubt and
a cloud of pain.

I couldn't make those happy phone calls.
Couldn't tell my mom.
My roommate had just had healthy twin boys
that she refused
to have anything to do with.

She was a foreign ambassador's wife
and I called her every name in the book
most of which insulted everything about her.
Then I grabbed my stuff and left.
I camped out in the smoking lounge
alone, crying, scared to death.

Night nurse came,
found me sodden.
Left, came back
and trundled me off
to the pediatric critical intensive care.

Wrapped tubes close,
wrapped blankets
around her to keep her warm
and handed me my daughter.
I was freezing cold
until I looked
at roses and cream,
tuft of white-blond hair,
immense green-grey eyes,
studying me,
until she grabbed my finger
and blinked.
No blue.

I knew
in that moment
she was perfectly fine.
I knew
the odds
had been made even.
She'd been given less than
twenty-five chances
out of a thousand to be okay.
And I knew.

Miracle child
who'd go on to fall from forty-foot tall
pine and land without a scratch
or broken bone;
not even a single bruise.
Miracle child
who'd serve her country
and win high military awards.
Miracle child
who has a genius IQ,
a heart she wraps
around all who know her
and who stands and fights
for anyone less fortunate than she.
Miracle child
with stars in her eyes,
with words and designs
erupting from her creative soul
and joy in every single breath.

My miracle child.

I don't know why
things happen as they do.
I don't pretend to comprehend
the complexities of the universe.
I mourne and I celebrate.
The constellations continue to dance,
brighter for two brilliantly shining stars
gazing down upon us all.

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