Crawling Toward Life
What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open. ~ Muriel Rukeyser. What happens when a Doctor does house calls? There truly is no place like home.
Accepting hard things is tough but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives crawling from them. Loving is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on believing in possibilities—the risks that make us the most vulnerable—of sharing our story—of bleeding for love.
When my twins were freshly born, I felt as if I had been cut off at the legs, torn apart limb by limb, shattered into tiny shards of glass, invisibly bleeding in a dark room without a door.
Without legs how did I pace the Stanford hospital NICU (neonatal intensive care unit), hold my one-pound babies, watch Baby A sleep like a mouse with miniature tubes injected into her tiny body, beep, beep, beep… Nurse Baby B in between beeps, surgeries to seal her heart, tube threadings into her minuscule veins, procedures to save her eyes, remove her small intensities, and wait.
Doctors would say vacuous, fearful things about Baby A.
She’ll be okay—once she wakes up.
She may not have the use of her legs.
She’ll adjust.
Doctors would say pretentious, ugly, scary things about Baby B.
She’ll never be able to eat like a normal person.
She’ll need a liver transplant from the high dosage of medications.
We’ve never successfully performed this surgery on a one-pound infant.
When I wasn’t pacing day and night I was sitting—holding—rocking—nursing—willing Baby A and Baby B back to my womb where they belonged before their birth was obstetrically interrupted three months early.
I was not in my body. Far from it. Outside or above, AWOL, unlocatable—imagining I was watching a movie of someone else’s life—desperate to change the channel—turn it off.
The NICU nurses would whisper things.
Here comes the Mama Cop.
Never give her babies formula. She’ll have your head.
Just do what she says.
Three months later Baby A was discharged 3.5 pounds with a portable oxygen machine attached to her, eyes closed, body still. The doctors would say wrong, numbing things.
She’ll be okay—she’s tired.
She may not have the use of her legs.
She’ll adjust.
Three months later the Surgeons would say things about Baby B.
This is impossible. We’ve never seen a small intestines grow back.
Looks like she will eat and not need a liver transplant.
Her eyes are not good but better.
When I was not pacing the NICU I was on an elevator to the hospital rooftop groping for air, pleading for the beeps to stop, anxious to punch someone, kick something—to hide the blood beneath my clothes.
I would say incorrigible things.
I need a whiskey.
Give me a cigarette.
I didn’t smoke or drink, so that didn’t happen. I had years of recovery under my belt and I wasn’t about to lose more.
What happened instead—I remembered baby Autumn, her ecstatic homebirth, her natural happiness, and the exquisite ease in caring for her. I thought what was possible for her must be possible for her sisters. I remembered the kangaroo baby sling I carried her in—the immense benefits of keeping a baby close to your body.
Maybe I could train the nurses in the NICU to do the same.
When I returned to the NICU Baby B had patches on both eyes. Baby A was transferred to our local hospital. My toddler was home stuttering, ‘I-i nee-eed ma-ma-ma-ma-mama.’
Driving from place to place, I’d think, Nobody knows. Nobody knows I have three babies, in three places, and all three need me. I look like any other ordinary person going about business. They can’t see I don’t have legs, the blood. And I’d pray—How am I going to convince these doctors that I can’t wait until Baby B reaches 3.5 pounds, I have to bring her home now.
The doctors would say things.
She has to reach the required weight.
If you can get a local pediatrician to sign off and do daily house calls, we will release her.
I would say.
She needs her mother. I’ll call Dr. Mc.
I showed that each day I was not able to be with Baby B she lost all the weight she gained from crying. It was well-documented and strengthened my argument for carrying her in a sling. The nurses agreed. It worked like magic. Baby B cried less while I was not there and soon reached 3.5 pounds.
The next thing I remember is nursing three babies in the comfort of our wild upside-down home. I chuckled, wholly savoring when one of the twins and Autumn were on opposite boobs— fully blissed out in the moment. Autumn’s head was disproportionately large like a melon compared to the tiny peaches. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, a tornado uprooted everything known. The damage was done, consequences unknown, a new adventure had begun, and ‘there truly is no place like home.’
Unlike the Wizard in The Wizard of Oz, our pediatrician immediately made himself available without a fuss. When he came each day with his black bag in hand, I felt transported to somewhere over the rainbow. We were in the best of care—our trust was mutual.
Later, when Baby B had her patches removed and crawled out of my arms, I began to feel my legs. I pushed things out of her way, unsure of what she could see. For many months, her belly never left the ground; she commando crawled like a heroine through rubble and ash—escaping the battlefield to resurrect her life.
The kind of crawling that makes all other tasks seem small.
Curiosities grow strong.
As soon as Baby B—Abby could crawl on her hands and knees, she was off—exploring every corner of the house and the trails of people that came and went.
In the kitchen, she found the cupboard doors, opened one after the other, took out every pot and pan, and climbed in like a detective with a search warrant. Once she satisfied her senses she moved toward the next adventure.
When people came to our house, they left their shoes at the door.
Abby put a shoe on each hand and took off crawling, conversing with this person or that person through the feel of their shoes, babbling along the way.
Ba-do-ga. Ta-ba-ga.
Ahh-gaa-gaa. Ooh-Ah-Eee.
BA-ba-NAH. Gah.
As Abby crawled toward life, I felt my legs thaw, the blood beneath my clothes began to clot, scars formed, and curiosity buzzed, doors to living opened.
Abby is twenty-seven now, her vision has improved, her senses are sharp—well developed—keener than most but it has taken a long time for her to detach from me.
Recently we were at the gym to make an appointment for each of us to have a personal training session. With her entire body, she spoke things.
We are two people.
I’m separate from my mom.
I need my own personal trainer.
Praise the Goddess of Hellfire and Burning Curiosity.
That was the most exquisite comforting music to my ears ever. I will never forget how my body fired up when I heard her say, ‘I am an individual. I can make my own decisions. I don’t need my mom to make appointments for me. I got this.’
The process of individuation can be a lifelong process. Unconsciously, without intention, we can easily transfer our insecurities, missed experiences, doubts, blame, or losses onto others.
That day, Abby and I stood tall like sunflowers in full bloom—walked out of the gym as two separate people, strong on our legs, rooting for each other, burning with curiosity—walking toward life.
Accepting hard things is tough but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives crawling from them. Loving is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on believing in possibilities—the risks that make us the most vulnerable—of sharing our story—of bleeding for love.
When we are brave enough to crawl out of darkness—we discover the power of curiosity—our strength—our value—our capacity to grow new legs.
Life changes in a heartbeat—unexpectedly—on a dime.
I want to hear from you in the comments, anything you want to share or your words that flow from this prompt:
The hard thing I have not written about …
Your story might be a survival guide for someone else to crawl toward life. Write it. Share it.
Do you want to read the story of fierce love? The second edition of Edge of Grace, Fierce Awakenings to Love is here. Enjoy and share if you like.
Prajna’s riveting account of her path through life’s greatest challenges simultaneously broke and healed my heart. It reminds me of a Muriel Rukeyser quote: ‘What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.’ Prajna’s telling of her truth is a blessing to each reader and the world. ~Amber Aldrich
There is magic in Prajna’s voice—the breathtaking honest telling of a dramatic human story. The moving, uplifting, cleansing, surging power that makes you feel you’ll never be the same again! ~Sarah Tavner, BBC Documentary Producer
Thank you for reading and receiving your dose of The Salty Crone.
with love,
Prajna O’Hara @PrajnaOhara.com
If you enjoy this publication, please consider restacking or sharing with friends. My publication is free. Soon I will add more ‘good things’ for community engagement.
Thank you for being here!
Thank you Ms Jamie
I appreciate you!
Yes do it!
❤️
Curious what is one hard thing?
Hi Laurie,
I thought I responded, but I cannot find it. What a great wordGod smacked
That was a talk to text typo but I like it.
Thank you for reading. I love reading your stories as well.
Keep in touch
Thank you