I remember waking up after the effects of the anesthesia to hear the glorious words, “You have a daughter, she is fine.”

But while other mothers were joined by cute little facsimiles around the clock, I was not.

Because of her premature weight, miles separated my daughter and I. While I was wheeled into my recovery room, she was whisked away to waiting specialists in a hospital 30 minutes away. She would live her first two weeks of life without my presence. Her first two months away from home.

The sound of babies crying in the next room was a difficult sound for me to hear. My arms ached wanting only to hold my child. Not long after her birth my husband brought tangible proof that I really did have a baby. Beautiful color photos were carefully placed in my shaking hands.

Somehow my tears didn’t blur my vision, but instead seemed to sharpen it.

Those pictures and I became inseparable. I showed them to each and every nurse that would come into my room. The German nurses were successful in conveying their empathy for my situation. Their loving actions made words unnecessary.

After two long weeks of waiting, the day came when I was granted a leave to go and see my daughter. I took my morning shower with definite purpose. Running the brush through my almost black hair I tried waiting patiently for my husband to arrive.

Still moving slowly after my surgery I found that my heart was racing. My mouth was like cotton and my hands were shaking. I felt I would be complete when I saw her and I secretly hoped she would feel the same.

The ride was one big blur. I saw cars filled with insignificant people. We encountered many insensitive traffic lights.

We were simply traveling in an uncooperative world that had no idea of the importance of that day. Our white Le Car finally pulled into the hospital parking lot.

For all the countless times my husband had made that trip, there should have been a designated parking spot reserved for us. As we rode the elevator up to the second floor, I kept wondering where was the fanfare?

My stomach resembled the laces on a five-year-olds’ first pair of tie shoes.

Given hospital gowns, I noticed the fresh sterile smell in the air. The light green color was pleasing to the eyes.

I slipped my arms into sleeves that were held for me, much like a queen assisted into her royal attire. Putting on the plastic shoe coverings, and paper cap I made my way over to the sink to wash all the unseen germs from my hands. I then put on the white paper mask and proceeded into the next room.

Passing by little incubators, I saw loving eyes cast on each small baby. Some with brows knit in concerned formation. Pink and blue crocheted pants covered each precious bottom.

On the side of each bed were little cards with carefully chosen names. In a matter of seconds my legs turned into gelatin. I continued to walk, though my efforts were thwarted by my apparent loss of strength.

Soon I would be looking into the incubator that held my little sweetheart.

Apprehensively I approached her little space. I looked down at her, and within seconds my mask was drenched with tears.

And then my husband simply asked “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Carefully I dissected each word. Were we really looking at the same child?

The one I saw was pitiful, weighing a little more than 3 pounds of butter. She was long and pink in color. The few wires attached to her frail skin at times would make her grimace. The photographs I had were far too flattering.

Soon a smiling nurse approached us, opening what looked like a small porthole in the side of the incubator. With gestures she encouraged me to stroke a delicate little leg.

Something stirred within me as I touched the tender little body. I spoke softly in gentle tones telling her of my love.

At that moment it didn’t matter that her birth nearly cost me my life. We were both alive and that’s all that mattered.

In just moments our first visit was drawing to a close. My body was both physically and emotionally spent. I had but one request. Could we just wait till her little eyes closed in sleep before leaving her side?

My wish was granted. Again my arms ached wanting only to hold her, something that wouldn’t happen for another couple of weeks.

Slowly I left the room, taking off all traces of my special visit. Silently we left the hospital knowing we would visit each day possible.

The trip back to my hospital seemed much shorter somehow. I undressed, got back into bed and fell into a sleep I desperately needed.

I could rest now. I had seen her, I had touched her and I felt full.

And he was right, she was beautiful.

Note: First published in Kamelian Literary Art Journal — First Place