This interlude is in many ways a gift. The pandemic has slowed us to a crawl, so several times a day, my elderly basement guests and I settle in for lengthy memory chats.
This morning we talked about how after the birth of my twins, I needed a hysterectomy and cystocele repair. Look it up...actually, don't.
I was breastfeeding at the time--and maniacal about it. I was determined to keep nursing through the four-day hospitalization at Mayo Clinic, and I asked my parents to help out. They were in their mid-60s at the time, a little older than I am now.
They stayed in a hotel near the hospital in Rochester. Four times a day they rolled my babies from the hotel to my hospital room for their feedings. Harrison and Stuart were four months old at the time.
For some reason (??) my daughter Eloise, who was four, was also in their care. My other three children were back in Iowa--ages 9, 7, and 2--with Dan and his parents. Even writing this, I am shocked at how crazy my life with six children under 10 must have been.
But back to my parents: Today when we dipped into this shared memory, I was able to thank them anew for the generous support they gave to me in that difficult time. We laughed together about how they had bundled Eloise in her snowsuit (it was January), but then found the underground walkways...by the time they reached my room, Eloise was boiled in her snowsuit! My parents were horrified when they realized how hot she was.
I stripped her down and tickled her little naked back. I cherish that memory.
I also remember how during those four days in Rochester, my mom taught Eloise to write her first word: LOVE.
Enough.
Stay well.
Write.
Allison
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