First Born
My first born. My girl.
I didn't think I was going to be able to get pregnant with you.
After years of punishing my own body in an effort to be perfect, I thought I had destroyed any possibility of being able to have children. I had shrunk myself into the size of a child to take up as little space as possible, and there was no way a child could give birth to a child. I don't remember how I felt about not having children, but I was 34 years old and 99 pounds and I think I thought I couldn't even take care of myself, so it was good that I would never be able to have children. And I also knew that my child-like body was a comfort to me because it was something I could control while everything else was uncontrollable, and I did not want to give that up for motherhood.
But then I met him, and he proposed, and we set a ceremony date for June 6th, and I bought a second hand wedding dress that fit my child body perfectly, and then a few months later I couldn't stand the smell of coffee for three mornings in a row and I got scared and on a whim I took a pregnancy test and it told me I was pregnant. And then I took three more pregnancy tests and they also told me I was pregnant. And then my child body changed quickly, and I had all the appointments, and all the tests taken, and then the doctor was very worried that the baby would have Down syndrome, and I cried but knew I would keep the baby, and then more tests showed that the baby was unlikely to have Down syndrome, and I cried again, and through all of this my wedding dress was being altered every few weeks to accommodate my quick metamorphosis from child to mom. And then on the wedding day I felt my child flip flopping in my uterus as I looked into his eyes and read my vows.
My daughter was supposed to be born on October 3rd but by October 13th I had not experienced any contractions. An ultrasound on the morning of the 13th showed that the amniotic fluid was decreasing and I was told to go home and pack my bags and head to the birthing center at the hospital, which I did with nervous excitement. My cervix had not dilated at all and so they put a pill on it to coax it open like the cave in the tale of Ali Baba but that did not work either, and so they administered Pitocin and the contractions started. I had been excited to feel contractions, but once they started there was no joy, only a searing feeling of lightning striking my spine every time they occurred, and an increasing sense of dread as I anticipated their arrival. I prided myself on my ability to handle pain, and I thought that the pain I was going through was the pain so many other women had endured, so I cried through 18 hours of back labor until I couldn't take it anymore and asked for some relief. I sat on the edge of the hospital bed as the anesthesiologist put medicine in my spine and the pain went away quickly and I fell into a deep sleep, completely exhausted.
I was woken at 7 am by the voice of my doctor telling me my baby was not thriving and they were prepping me for an emergency c-section. I went from deep sleep to deep-throated sobbing in seconds, feeling like I had failed my baby and my first responsibility as her mother, because I was not giving her the healthy, non-traumatic birth she so deserved. I cried to her that I was so sorry, so very sorry, as they transferred me to a rolling bed and then to the operating table, and then the mean and frustrated man standing over my head told me to calm myself down, and he administered more medicine and suddenly I felt myself going completely numb. First my legs, then my hips, then my stomach, and then my chest and throat, and I then suddenly I could not feel myself breathing.
I tried to inhale.
I tried to exhale.
I tried to open my mouth.
I tried to scream.
I could do none of it, because my lungs were numb and my throat was numb and my voice was numb and my breath was numb.
I could not feel myself breathing.
I could not feel myself breathing.
I was a body on a table, completely numb except for my brain and my eyes, and all I could do was look at everyone with terror in my eyes as I drowned in a numb inability to breathe.
My vitals started going out of whack, and the doctors started trying to talk to me but I couldn't answer them because I couldn't breathe, and there was chaos, and they elevated my head and my chest, and more medicines were given, and I was told my spinal block had traveled too high and to hang on, all while they cut me open and pulled my baby from my body.
It was only when I heard my baby crying that I knew we were both going to survive. I knew that she had made it into the world, pulled violently from her curled up position in the warmth of my womb into a freezing room. I knew I would breathe again because she needed me to breathe.
I could not hold my baby because my arms were numb. I was too afraid I would drop her. Her tiny body was swaddled and placed on my chest, and she was held in place there by a nurse, and she was all at once my peace, and my home, and my partner in this violent world.
This is our life story, baby girl.
There is no denying the pain, and it can sometimes feel like I am drowning in it, but your voice has always pulled me out of it, as if you are still being pulled out of my body, into a sense of purpose, from the first day you were born.
I suspected you were brave.
ReplyDeleteI suspected you were strong.
I suspected you were resilient.
I was wrong.
You are more. You are so much more.
They had not left the door ajar.
They didn't lure into insidiousness, into an ambush,
for a shattering, final salute.
for an attempt at a demonstration of weakest strength,
to make an ultimate, everlasting impression.
None of them did.
My friend died when I was thirteen,
sneaking out of his parents' house in the night, to the railroad tracks.
Not far away, it became excitedly loud and quiet, as bright as day,
when the fire department arrived,
It went close, it became screamingly quiet and loud, pitch black,
when the certainty came.
I noticed nothing, saw nothing, smelled nothing, sensed nothing - of his intention.
My school friend died when I was seventeen,
in his parents' basement.
We saw each other in the schoolyard or at parties.
He was an excellent student, a year away from graduation.
I noticed nothing, saw nothing, smelled nothing, sensed nothing - of his intention.
My friend died six years ago,
sneaked out of his parents' house in the night, to the railroad tracks.
He left behind his wife and two children and a prosperous business.
Not very imaginative, yes, he was the brother of the first-mentioned friend.
I noticed nothing, saw nothing, smelled nothing, sensed nothing - of his intention.
My grandma died because my uncle needed money.
Always. For self-expression. For staging.
He was always good at convincing, rather persuading. Actually dazzle.
The narcissist celebrated his 80th birthday last year.
My grandmother's death anniversary is in May.
She died on the coat rack in her retirement home room.
I noticed nothing, saw nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing - of her intention.
Why am I actually writing all this?
You don't know any of these people,
Heavens, you don't even know me.
They didn't leave the door ajar,
they left like the lightning of a summer thunderstorm,
sometimes I can still hear the thunder echoing.
When thoughts and images surface.
You on the other hand fought, like a lioness, for years, daily.
With pleas, reasons, begging, assuming almost all responsibility,
urging to seek therapy, asking to reconsider behavior.
With the best possible reasons. Love. The children.
Love is also work.
Distributed on shoulders.
You gave more than the sum.
Without evaluation, without accusation,
terms lie in my stomach.
Lied to. Cheated. Unfair. Blackmailed.
Forcibly controlled, mentally, physically.
And forced to make an inhuman,
impossible decision.
Only to see another decision made,
selfish, unilateral, final.
Deprived of a conversation.
No more contradictions possible.
Not allowing pulling back by the shoulders.
The ghosts come back from time to time,
and I have no magic wand to offer you.
No spell that would make you feel better.
But open eyes and ears.
You were strong for two a long time,
you still are.
Is it getting easier?
In my experience, it gets different.
The frequency of pinpricks in the heart and head gets lower,
the intensity on birthdays, anniversaries becomes weaker.
Time does not heal all wounds;
should not mean oblivion.
But can soften.
One day at a time.
Step by step.
I do not want in any way, throw even one
microscopic glass fragments
on the floor under your bare feet.
Under no circumstances create a split second of pain.
But why am I actually writing all this?
None of it can be compared, balanced, compensated.
Because you have shown me
to speak openly where I have been silent,
to think there, where I have finished thinking,
to be brave where I was a coward.
And you are so much more.
Thank you.