After Callie was born, they transported her to a Level 5 Trauma hospital downtown. It was there that we spent the next three months in the NICU.
I would take the same elevator every day to travel up to the NICU. Listlessly punching the same button, feeling the elevator jar to life as it traveled up. Nervous butterflies dancing in my stomach–praying she hadn’t had any issues while we were away from her the previous night. Tired, grief stricken, and trying to get my footing in our new life.
At the end of the night, I would punch the button for the ground floor, exhausted, weary, and overwhelmed. Feeling huge bouts of anxiety about leaving her but we weren’t allowed to stay overnight in the NICU. Averting my eyes as other people got on and off the elevator, unable to keep the tears from falling.
The same elevator, up and down, every day for three months. The hardest three months of my life.
Until I pushed the button for the very last time–we were finally being discharged from the NICU and we were taking our baby girl HOME. The last trip down was a joyful one–excited to start our new lives together as a family.
Callie had to have surgery done on her knee at that same hospital last year. The hospital had undergone multiple major renovations in the fifteen years since our last visit and I barely recognized it. Modern, vibrant, and full of colorful artwork geared towards kids. Bonus–they’d added a Starbucks!
After Callie was in recovery, I offered to run down to Starbucks to get us some coffee. It would be a while before she would wake up completely and both of us were feeling the effects of our early wake up call that morning. I walked down the hall towards the bank of elevators and waited patiently for the next elevator to arrive.
Ding. Ding.
The one to my left chimed it’s arrival and doors slid open.
I stepped inside and pushed the button to go down.
I started to sweat and couldn’t catch my breath. I felt like I was on a roller coaster but didn’t have my safety harness on. I could feel the elevator moving but it was like I was floating outside of my body. The smell of the elevator flooded my nose. My heart was racing like I’d just run 6 miles. My only thought was I had to get out of that elevator. But my feet were frozen to the door.
The body remembers.
I was in the same elevator I used to take every day to visit Callie in the NICU.
I didn’t recognize it because of the renovations but make no mistake–my body remembered it.
My body remembered the fear, the guilt, the shame, the grief, the rage, the anger, sadness, and the heartbreak. My body remembered how soul crushingly hard those three months were. My body remembered the exhaustion and the confusion. My body remembered the trauma and the upheaval.
And it needed out of that elevator immediately.
I frantically pushed the button for the next floor, not caring that I still had 4 floors to go to get to Starbucks.
The body remembers.
I threw myself out as soon as the doors opened. Frantically pulling out my phone to call James.
The body remembers.
When you have an overwhelming experience, your logical mind might feel “over it” before your body does.
The trauma from Callie’s birth and NICU stay was not physically held in my muscles or bones — instead, the need to protect myself from perceived “threats” was stored in the memory and emotional centers of my brain (known as the hippocampus and amygdala). These centers activated my body when a situation reminded me of the traumatic event(s).
My body remembered.
This bodily storing or remembering of trauma happens through visceral responses, autonomic and muscle memory and habits. This remembering has a good intention – it was trying to avoid what felt bad and move me quickly towards what feels safe.
The problem is that when I was feeling these somatic symptoms of the trauma, I didn’t realize I was remembering something from the past. Instead, it felt like something that was happening right now. Essentially, I confused the past for the present.
I got my breathing under control and called James. He walked me through some of the calming techniques I’d learned years ago and I sat on the cold linoleum floor of the hospital until I felt strong enough to stand again.
The body remembers.
I took the stairs down to get our coffee and on each floor, I reminded myself of how far we’ve come. That we could make it through and had made it through hard things. That Callie was a warrior.
That Callie was strong, fierce, and mighty.
And as I walked into get our coffees, my body remembered…..I too was also strong, fierce, and mighty.
And I knew I would be ok.