Remembering Her Start

Sometimes it's good to remember what you came from.

My daughter and I recently visited my radiation oncologist - the (earthly) man I credit with saving her life when my radiation treatment and astonishing pregnancy intersected.

She and I have visited once before, shortly after her birth, but her celebrity status in the office has not waned. From the receptionist Cathy, to the nurse Ellen, to the variety of technicians in the back, they come forward to marvel at the miracle that she is.

She toddles down the hallway happily, her chubby legs in their classic wide-stance as they amble her forward slowly, as though she’s surfing on her own feet.

After several outings that involved hot and/or dirty floors, I’m finally remembering the new necessity of squeezing her chubby feet into shoes – bright pink sequin shoes this morning. (They make me think of a peppy old lady in a puffy-painted sweatshirt. But one shouldn't complain over a wardrobe of gifted clothes.) A matching bright pink bow holds back her silky, brown hair as she smiles at her audience. Her arms are outstretched to do their part in the balancing act of walking and her little wrist is hard at work as she throws off waves of greeting to her audience.

When my doctor arrives, I scoop her into my lap and watch as the 60-something, childless man smiles at her and touches her hand. She giggles and shows her first sign of bashfulness by tucking her face into my chest.
"This man saved your life," I want to whisper into her ear.

She was a tiny little pea, in her first stages of a questionable development when I was being treated here. Prayer after prayer from that back, radiation room was answered. I squeeze my thumb into the palm of my hand just thinking about it -
 as I used to each day, laying on the table under the beams... picturing God wrapping his hand around her, protecting her. As He did.

It’s been a year and a half since I finished treatment - a well-spent year and a half of changing diapers and picking out little shoes, of watching her and her brother grow. 

I hug her tighter than usual as we say goodbye and I have the incredible privilege of slipping back into a life of normal, with her.

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