I stare at myself in a bathroom holding a stuffed penguin named Waddles.  I look at my hair and clothes.  Hair once fluffy and brushed now flat against my head, constant pulling back and tucking strands behind ears.

I have been here before.  Different bathroom.  Months of a harshly lit bathroom with speckled floors.  The smell of antibacterial washes and creams.  The same haggard face staring at me.

The face I didn’t expect to see again.  A face that surprises me.  I guess it is the weariness. The  resigned eyes staring back. The exhaustion.

And I smirk at myself.

At least in this bathroom, once I walk out, I will smell breakfast and fried food.  I can sit down at a table with my family and indulge in multiple cups of coffee, eat huge pancakes, and crunch on bacon.

The other bathroom offered no comforts, other then a trek back into a colder hospital scrub down area, complete with a huge trough sink, worn hospital gowns, and rows upon rows of critically ill babies.  All fighting to hold onto that precious gift of life.  Life that had to be fought for, not freely given.  The hour by hour, second by second, battleground.

I am not there in that room anymore, in my little Mommy rocking chair, shoved way back to allow the medical staff to intervene if necessary.

I am not in that room anymore watching my baby squirm on an open bed, hooked up to tubes and lines, essentially holding him to life here on the ground. While Mother Nature did her best to yank him up to the sky.

No, now it is just dealing with the remnants of those days. The take away prize my son was given, the damage to his eyes.  Wild and overgrown vessels stretched over warped retinae. Tamed by lasers, but every once in awhile, breaking open.

Thankfully, no blindness. Thankfully, no retinal tears.  But I can still hear Mother Nature snickering.