Internal Scars

Internal Scars. We all have them. Those things in life that mark us forever but not the painful life events we wear on our sleeves, so to speak.
I have a fine collection if I do say so myself. Tyrant chaotic abusive father. My brother's suicide. Can we talk about being a 400+ lb teenager?
But today, I am thinking of the trauma surrounding the birth of tiny. His birthday is approaching and, like with each of my children, I reflect on their birth, the year that has passed. And with Tiny, there is a huge suitcase that I never unpack of charged emotions in the days after his birth, not knowing if he would survive. A suitcase I don't let myself unpack. It has been getting heavy these last few days. I choked up singing happy birthday surrounded by our family and closest friends. Those who were praying, filling in the gaps with our children, meals, being available 24/7 for my deluge of postpartum tears on fear induced steroids during our NICU nightmare. Those who listened to the endless jargon of pneumothroax and neonatoligists reports, respiratory therapists and all the graphs we watched for countless hours, counting his every machine assisted breath. They were all there, singing heartily to our little miracle while I was trying not to burst out bawling.
The NICU is where he was named Tiny. By a nurse who I don't even know his last name, who patiently answered all of my questions, explained every term and medication and IV and monitor and tape that was tethering my tiny and growing smaller, drug induced sleeping baby every day.
Thanks Harold.
My family is joyfully singing to this robust little fat thing and I am holding back the choking tears, unable to stop the flood of memories of the beeping machines, the middle of the night phone calls...your baby's lung has collapsed, again, in another place, yes. What? You stuck a tube THROUGH HIS RIB CAGE to empty out the fluid and air building up in his chest to relieve him of the agonizing pain
WHAT??
Trying to remain calm and collected, like I was a professional,just gathering information. When really, I was a mother who never puts her baby down once it leaves my womb, lying in bed, without my baby. Miles and miles away in fact. And not even ALLOWED to hold him when I am there. Not even allowed to touch his taped and tethered little body. Couldn't even touch my baby for seven days. This soul, this whole person I grew inside my own flesh, the one whose name we grappled with, whose gender we grappled with, whose life and its uncertainty I was now grappling with and begging for his wholeness and survival.
This is my internal scar. It hasn't healed yet. Sometimes, I look at him, run my finger across the place in his side that was literally cut open to save his life, and my scar breaks open and bleeds.
I can't even bear the thought of actually visiting the nicu, although they deserve my life and neverending thanks, because I am afraid of what will happen to me when I walk in to that place.
My internal scar is bleeding today.