60 minutes.
Today is December 7, exactly one month from the date of Scarlette's birth.
30 days have passed since I first laid eyes on my newborn baby. 30 days of gazing at her through a box of plastic. 30 days in which I was barely able to touch her.
Today they handed me my daughter.
Today I held her.
For an hour.
It took a team of nurses and respiratory therapists 15 minutes to get us in position. I didn't get to touch her really, they handed her to me in her womb positioner; blankets, heating pad, ventilator tubes, IV wires and all. "You'll probably only get to hold her for a few minutes, they told me, she is setting off alarms when we touch her today."
She opened her eyes and stared at me as I sang to her, the silence of her alarms our background music. They came behind me and turned her ventilator settings down. Then down again. Then down again. "Keep holding her mommy, they said, she's responding so very well to it."
So I held her.
The heating pad made me sweat.
"Is she making you hot? Do you want us to take her?" they asked me.
I told them I'd have to be set on fire before I'd let her go.
Maybe not even then.
Today of all days, my camera died. I don't care that there's no picture. I will never forget that moment. I don't think film could have held it anyhow.
