(Untitled.)

Sometimes I will replay some random memory in my head and then feel a strange urgency to write it down. It's like some sort of gate opens up in my brain allowing my consciousness to completely remember every aspect of a certain moment. Each element is perfectly memorized: the smells, what I touched, what I heard, and naturally, what I felt.
Such a memory came to me as I drove home the other day. I was stressed and annoyed with the sudden San Diego heat and suddenly I was back in a hospital bed in the cotton pajamas I brought since I did not want to wear the awful hospital gown. The room was a dark gray and the only lights came from the myriad of unnecessary medical devices my baby and I were connected to. An IV pumped my body with so much fluid my face was grossly swollen and I had to bring an entire machine into the bathroom with me just to take a quick pee. I was almost 36 hours into labor and very uncomfortable.
I couldn't sleep since I rejected pain meds at that point and the hustle and bustle of the nurses outside kept interrupting my tiredness. Todd was sleeping on the cold linoleum floor next to me covered with a flimsy blanket. I wanted him to lay next to me and be warm but I knew we wouldn't fit in the tiny bed.
I closed my eyes again and felt a strange feeling of euphoria come over me. A sort of contentment, a knowing sense that I was loved and lucky. It was similar to the feeling a child gets during the holidays or after a warm bath and freshly washed sheets. I could hear the strong beating of Olivia's heart, Todd's faint snoring, and my own breathing in quiet room. I suppose that's the closest I've come to knowing my life is going to drastically change, being completely aware that something huge was going to happen, and being totally okay with it.