Hallelujah.
The house is quiet from her bedroom, the blanket on the floor beneath us
is soft and pink and fleecy with little green frogs. The little
lamp--the yellow one with a bumblebee--shines gently as I sing to her.
Since she has been a part of my life, it has always been the same song.
I'm not entirely sure why--out of a vast multitude of others--it is this
song I always sing. But it remains constant, steady.
She looks at me then with her usual expression--the one I search so desperately to understand. I begin to undress her slowly, carefully, until she's down to just her undershirt and diaper. Her pajamas are laid out neatly beside the blanket, her bottle of lotion nearby. I warm some lotion between my hands and begin to massage her legs. The right one first, then the left. As I place her right foot in my hand, her entire leg shakes as the result of the new positioning. I wait until it settles, and begin gently massaging the muscles, so very tight from Cerebral Palsy. I love her feet. Though they'll never bear her weight with each new, confident step, I love her feet. Her toenails are painted red. It's my favorite color and I hope she approves, although I'll never be quite sure that's the case...
Well I heard there was a secret chord
that David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth,
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah...
that David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well it goes like this:
The fourth, the fifth,
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah...
She looks at me then with her usual expression--the one I search so desperately to understand. I begin to undress her slowly, carefully, until she's down to just her undershirt and diaper. Her pajamas are laid out neatly beside the blanket, her bottle of lotion nearby. I warm some lotion between my hands and begin to massage her legs. The right one first, then the left. As I place her right foot in my hand, her entire leg shakes as the result of the new positioning. I wait until it settles, and begin gently massaging the muscles, so very tight from Cerebral Palsy. I love her feet. Though they'll never bear her weight with each new, confident step, I love her feet. Her toenails are painted red. It's my favorite color and I hope she approves, although I'll never be quite sure that's the case...
...Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah...
Once she is dressed, I carefully slide my arms beneath her. I lift her
sweet body to mine, and we rock for some time before I place her in her
crib. I have a hard time with this step. I am certain I can physically
adjust her to a maximum comfort level, but like a new mother of a
just-born baby, I have those moments of perfectly pure panic: will she
feel abandoned? Will her eyes search for me and find only the soft glow
of her nightlight? Will she drift off to sleep? I check on her
endlessly, almost obsessively. When I am finally certain she is asleep,
safe and warm in her crib, I can rest. But I might just check on her one
more time...
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah...
I
finish massaging her feet and legs, and attempt to semi-gracefully
dress her in her pajama bottoms. I'd like to say I am not longer clumsy
with my attempt, but it is probably far from true. I am trying, though. I
am careful. I roll her gently to her side and rub more lotion on her
back. This is one of the evening moments where I feel she seems the most
relaxed. I take my time and work in slow, calculated strokes. I massage
some lotion on her stomach, ever so mindful of her gastro button, as it
is her lifeline and I feel she is well aware. She's not a fan of anyone
messing with it. Feedings, fine. The many meds, okay. But I work
quickly as I move the lotion around her sweet tummy, knowing her unease
(perhaps anxiety?) at the proximity of my hands to her button.
...Baby I've been here before
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor (you know)
I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
and love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah...
I rub the lotion over her arms, always marveling in the gorgeous chocolate color of her soft skin, my hands ghost white in contrast. I finish her arms, roll her to her side to get to her back, and then begin the slow process of carefully pulling her shirt over her head--carefully maneuvering her beautiful braids and gently adjusting her stiff, seemingly stubborn arms. She looks drowsy now, and I hope it is because she is accepting the comfort I am trying to give her. Through mile-long lashes I see her gaze is upon me once again. Can she understand who I am? Where she is? Why she's here? How much she's loved?
She wasn't always like this. She wasn't born this way. Yet this is who she is. She is beauty embodied in a complex wheelchair. She is perfection with limbs that she can't control, a voice she can't use to sing or speak, a mouth which will never taste anything (too at risk for aspiration pneumonia). This is her reality. This is who she is: a beautiful caged bird...ever so mindful, ever so watchful...
I've seen this room and I've walked this floor (you know)
I used to live alone before I knew you
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
and love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah...
I rub the lotion over her arms, always marveling in the gorgeous chocolate color of her soft skin, my hands ghost white in contrast. I finish her arms, roll her to her side to get to her back, and then begin the slow process of carefully pulling her shirt over her head--carefully maneuvering her beautiful braids and gently adjusting her stiff, seemingly stubborn arms. She looks drowsy now, and I hope it is because she is accepting the comfort I am trying to give her. Through mile-long lashes I see her gaze is upon me once again. Can she understand who I am? Where she is? Why she's here? How much she's loved?
...there was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah...
What's really going on below
But now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah...
She wasn't always like this. She wasn't born this way. Yet this is who she is. She is beauty embodied in a complex wheelchair. She is perfection with limbs that she can't control, a voice she can't use to sing or speak, a mouth which will never taste anything (too at risk for aspiration pneumonia). This is her reality. This is who she is: a beautiful caged bird...ever so mindful, ever so watchful...
...Maybe there's a God above
all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah...
all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you
And it's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah...
Posted by courtney at 7/24/2011 10:51 PM 
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: Hallelujah sunshine love daughter motherhood sweetness follows
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: Hallelujah sunshine love daughter motherhood sweetness follows
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