Helipad

The floor I work on has recently moved to the new tower and we now have a view. Where we used to look out over a dingy rooftop to brick walls we now look out over Columbia. It really is quite beautiful, you can even see Stephen's Lake Park. However, as you wait for the elevator you get a very clear view of the helipad. For most people this is interesting but, for me, it is breath taking (and not in the positive sense). 

I have been on the floor several times since we moved, but because it is so new I often forget that this can be seen so clearly.  And every time I hit the button and stand back to look out the window while I wait for the elevator it takes my breath away. 

If I'm being transparent, I really try not to think about Sutton's birth. It was extremely traumatic for me - not the birth itself, that was ideal - but the minutes, hours, days, weeks and months that followed are still very difficult for me to process emotionally. So, everytime I see this:

I think how they pushed my intubated, hours old infant down that ramp to the waiting helicopter while we desperately waited for me to be discharged from the hospital. We had no idea what was wrong. We just knew he was in respiratory distress, they had to intubate him and that the scans showed a large mass that had not been seen on any ultrasounds (my last of which was at 28 weeks because of other complications during my pregnancy). Even thinking about it while writing this I feel the fear that I felt that morning and over the next several weeks as we uncovered what his condition was and what the best plan of care would be for him. 

And everytime I am on the floor and see that helipad I have the same momentary, traumatic flashback. It makes going there even harder. 

I hope, one day, I can look back to his birth with feelings of hopefulness and joy just like I remember Cohen's. I'm just not there yet.