And the day came, when I could say that my babies weren’t such baby babies anymore. There is something amazing about watching each new year, and watching your child become.
Our last born, known here as Baby K, her name Kena Kulani – literally means Joy resembling, or so as to reveal heaven. Kena is joy, a sweetheart, strong-willed, decisive, cheeky and seeker of joy in the simple things. The baby who made it through the odds, her pregnancy kept me close to the cross and the hospital. My body did things that it hadn’t done in the previous pregnancies.
I remember that for her birth, I had the birth of my dreams. The beauty and power was in the detail, the prayer as we begun, my hand being held to help me calm down as I got the spinal anaesthesia, because I was anxious. The more times you have been in theatre the less naiive you are about the actual risks and sheer miracles that happen there. It was also the playlist brought such joy in to the room, my desires were honoured: skin-to-skin contact, delayed cord clamping, the BTL, plus I was curious to see the placenta. I was present. February 15th became a landmark in my life for a pure, genuine form of kindness. Dr Swabra, you are gold!
This year, making it to the actual date was part of the miracle. I have been in admission for more days than I would like to count. One of my biggest concerns was not being able to spend Baby K’s birthday with her. Birthdays are a big deal in our home. There is something about feeling like your uterus and its neighbours were trying to sabotage you through Endometriosis, PCOM, Cysts, Hormonal imbalance and other little foxes and then going on to have babies, 3 amazing girlies. Living, breathing miracles. It is a cause to celebrate God’s goodness and to make memories.
The doctor gave me a leave out, and I can feel the tears well up again, I experienced a Kena kind of kindness. This was the greatest gift. I lived in the present and loved being mummy. It was so precious. Before I met the girlies, I needed a medical consultation with another doctor where I truly felt seen and heard, all of my considerations were put on the table. For me that was another kind of Kena kindness. A sweet, strong yet understanding kind of kindness.
‘Receive the love, receive the kindness. There are so many people willing to care for you, if only you would let them. ‘
This is one of the most freeing lessons I learned. In a session I needed to fill a form, and I needed a pen. He offered me one, but if you know Ess, you know that Miniso pens are with her like 95% of the time. Instead of taking the pen, I poured out all of the contents of my hand bag to get one of my two pens. As I later reflected on that moment, and why I just didn’t take the pen and get on with it, I realised that sometimes I resist kindness. That many times kindness is not a pity action, or something to only be accepted when between a rock and a hard place, it is an extension of care. It is a silent gesture that reminds you that you do not have to walk this path alone, a reminder that even though they do not and may never fully understand, they would like to be there for you. It wasn’t about the pen, it was about accepting kindness. It changed how I look at things, the grande and mundane. And I have loved giving kindness, because it has a power that reverberates. The kind that sticks and bring a warm and fuzzy feeling when you remember it. The kind that stoke embers of hope.
Baby K , Ky and Miss K sprinted to me when they saw me, and hugged me. These warm hugs tugged at my heart strings. They reminded me a of a love and joy that is divine. We got to do a few of Baby K’s favourite things, and she found joy in wearing mismatched socks, cutting her cake with friends who are also sisters, receiving prezzies and finally playing with her family. I jumped on that trampoline, like a little girly. At some point, I run in glee to her, and then I fell, with my legs in a W position. She asked me Mama what happened, and I explained to her that I fell and I needed to get up. The reality is she and ‘the sisters’ as she calls them, may not remember a lot of this season, but I hope that they will know that even in my fallen state I was there. A phone conversation with Baby K showed me that despite her age, there is grace and understanding, she understood that mummy felt a little better and was able to come out for the day but needed to go back to hospital in the evening, when she feels a lot better she will be able to come home and sleep there.
And even in this season that has been so hard, and I truly feel that hard is a huge understatement, I have felt so cared for. It has been the whatsapp messages, the calls, the texts, the flowers, the random memes, the carrot cake from Java, the prayers, the practical help, the verses, the school runs, the books, the videos, the podcasts, the visits, the playdates, the space to cry and to just be, allowing me to use your tissue, it has been silence, it has been spotify playlists, it has been mpesa messages, it has been random stories, and it has been finding humour in the valley.
3 years later, on this special date as I hugged my family, I was reminded of a joy that reveals heaven. A joy that reminds that even here He still is the God who truly sees me, (Gen 16:13), even when I feel He is silent (story for another day).
Just in case, you want to get in touch, please write/text/whatsapp, I may not be able to take many calls but I see you and feel the love. Even here in the valley of the shadow of death, there are glimmers of hope. Let’s hold on to those. May you experience a joy and comfort that reveals the love and heart of God in heaven, and those around you.
I’ve needed to hear this phrase daily for the past couple of weeks, but for anyone who needs a reminder, may I be the one to remind you from smack in the middle of the murk and the spot between a rock and a hard place, that ‘It will get better.’
❤
Bibi2Be 