Ticket for Admission

I swung my feet over the side of the bed and sat, frozen, as my newborn cried in her bassinet.

”I’ll get her “ Damon said as he rounded the corner.

What felt like thousand bees made a hive of my body. My organs vibrated as tiny little men, I imagined, pounded away at my bones.

“I didn’t know you could feel bone marrow,” I responded as I headed for the shower.

I stripped the pajamas off my pink-tinted, sweat-covered body while cursing the chemo seeping from my pours.

I turned the water to scolding.

A pillar of strength for my family, friends, and thousands of people praying for us from around the world, I stood numb as my tears camouflaged with the makeshift sauna.

Three weeks into motherhood and washing poison from my body is the ticket for admission to holding my baby.

Motherhood, in all its forms, is a form of survival.

And for me, it’s quite literal.