I Need Her

It is 2:00 am when the cell phone vibrates under my pillow reminding me to get up. In a swift motion I swing my legs around and glide out of bed, barely moving the covers. My husband sleeps soundly and so does my one-week-old baby, Nichole, who sleeps propped up in her car seat in our room. I pause at the door and stare at her small shadow. Slowly I turn and exit the room, closing the bedroom door behind me. It is time.

Across the hall from my room, I lock myself in the bathroom. I sit on the cold tile floor and pull the blue Medela breast pump from under the sink. The bottles, cups, and tubes are ready, waiting for me. I am full of milk and ready to relieve some of the pressure.

I plug myself to the milking machine, the rhythmic swishing begins, and within seconds, the floodgates are open. A steady stream that never fails every time I am attached to the pump. 

Why? Why?


Why does it have to be my baby? Why do I have to be the mother of a child with Down syndrome? Why!

It never fails. Every time the pump is to my breast I cry and grieve over Nichole's diagnosis. During the day, I have enough distractions to keep me from giving in and losing myself in despair. But at night, at night I can cry as much as I want. Everyone is sleeping. Nobody knows.

My article I Need Her was published today at SpecialNeeds.com. CLICK HERE to continue reading.

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