The Day You Were Born

Dear Little Love,

It’s nearly 8 months after you were born and I’m just now finding the words to capture the day of your birth. Leading up to your birth I had read lots of birth stories and I couldn’t wait to know what yours would be. I figured I would sit down to write it by the time you were one month old. Ha! I didn’t want to forget anything, and I figured the best way to document all the details would be to do it early. But at this point, I’m not concerned with documenting the details. I’m much more concerned with preserving the memory and sharing it with you.

That month came and went. And so did several others. I thought of the day your were born all of the time, but I also found myself unable to attach words to it. Even now, I hesitate to write any of this down because I am still not sure if I have found the right ones. And I know, with time and more processing, this story will evolve and I’ll tell it differently then. Here’s my attempt at giving words to it.

I had what I think was a pretty dreamy pregnancy. I loved being pregnant with you. Every time I saw my reflection or a picture of myself, I couldn’t help but to smile inwardly (and outwardly) at my expanding silhouette. I was practically giddy while you were growing inside me. My hands were almost always resting on my bump, eager to feel you move.

Your existence felt like such a precious surprise to me because I had wondered for several years if I would get to be a mom. It was my longest held desire. I desired you with a fierceness that truthfully scared me.  I marveled in your presence. I devoured as much as I could about pregnancy and birth – wanting to know everything that was happening in my body and in yours.

So it came as a bit of a surprise, toward the end of my pregnancy, to find out that something was wrong. And that something was cholestasis, which was life threatening to you and me. Instead of going into labor on my own, I needed to be induced. In the in between space of finding out and the delivery of you into my arms, I was scared for you and devastated that my body, which was supposed to be sanctuary for you, was actually a dangerous place for you to be. Dad and I tried to cram three weeks of preparation into about three days. And then we had to surrender to the fact that you were coming whether we were fully prepared or not.

The day before you were born, dad and I tried to have a relaxing, “normal” day… as normal as you can make it when you know that tomorrow everything will change. We made brunch together, did a few things to get ready for you. I got a massage, while dad played video games. We had a mini date and then we drove to the hospital. It was a weird night. I tried to sleep on a hospital bed, in a room with constant whirring and beeping, that was never the right temperature, always aware of the IV sticking out of my arm and the fact that getting up to go to the bathroom was a chore, while dad slept on a couch nearby. Needless to say, neither one of us slept much.

The morning you were born, I woke up in a hospital room and I felt ALL THE FEELINGS at once. So excited to meet you and scared about the whole birthing process, sad that I couldn’t go into labor naturally, pleased to be bombarded in the best possible way from everyone checking in on us and praying for you. Dad and I ate a crappy hospital breakfast while he taught me to play Super Smash Brothers. I wasn’t very good. But to my credit, it’s pretty hard to pay attention to video game characters when in mere hours I would be in active labor.

And then it happened. Suddenly the mild cramps I had been feeling turned much more painful. This was the moment I knew labor was starting. It was just your dad and me in the room, which felt weird. Shouldn’t there be more people monitoring me and telling us what to do? He laid next to me in the bed and put pressure on my back. I was grateful, but it wasn’t enough. I knew we could not continue with that plan indefinitely.

Even though we had watched the videos and prepared to have a natural birth, I forgot everything. I just laid there letting the contractions happen to me, knowing there were other things I could do to manage the pain. I couldn’t think of any other position or technique. It seemed all I could do to just get through. I was embarrassed by how quickly I asked for an epidural, anything to stop the pain from happening to me. Thankfully your dad stalled, knowing that’s not what I really wanted.

Some time after that, (and honestly, that’s a specific as I can get because I had no sense of time for the entire day) our doula Meghan arrived. I was so relieved. I didn’t know what I wanted or needed. All I knew was the pain that took over me. I needed someone to be there with helpful suggestions and gentle encouragement. I needed to not feel like I was the one with the answers.

Meghan made suggestions about laboring in the shower or on the birth ball or even on the toilet. We followed her advice for what must have been several hours. Contractions took over my whole body and I just kept doing what I needed to get through them, which mostly involved lots of swaying and hugging dad’s neck. I didn’t ask for an epidural again. I think we found our rhythm of letting the pain come and go. I found strength in changing my position or environment, not in just laying there as a victim to the pain. Then it was time to push. And then you were in my arms and all of my senses settled on only you. I was vaguely aware of the chaos still happening in the room, but everything else beyond you and dad was out of focus, greyed out, white noise.

Here’s the thing, babe: leading up to labor and birth, I was so concerned with the pain I would go through. Pain is what I knew from movies and TV shows and the stories of anyone who had ever given birth. But pain is not the first thing I think of (it doesn’t even make the top ten list) when I think of the day you were born.

Don’t get me wrong; I know there was pain. I know this because it was all I could think about that day. It was all-consuming. And I was humbled by how quickly I felt that it was unendurable. I had been so determined to deliver you naturally and I found myself sheepishly asking for a way to numb the pain, to dull it, to not experience it. So I’m not blissfully forgetting the pain. It just isn’t the thing I remember. What seemed so important while I was anticipating birth is now hardly remembered.

When I think of the day you were born, I think of your dad, who never left my side. I think of how I couldn’t have possibly endured contractions without an epidural if it weren’t for him. I think of the way he looked at me and how he encouraged me all day, telling me how amazing he thought I was. I think of how he was the perfect birth partner. It surprised us both because we weren’t really sure how he would handle seeing me in pain that he couldn’t take from me. But he was perfect, just perfect. He was tender and focused on me. He allowed himself to be uncomfortable if it allowed me to be more comfortable.

I think of the overwhelming sense of relief I felt with Meghan arrived. Now there was someone who was familiar with birth, with the pain I was feeling. There was someone who could guide us through, who could offer suggestions, bring encouragement and comfort.  I think of how she softly ran her fingers down my back and it was just what I needed. How could something so light offer so much comfort when my body was in the midst of a painful contraction?

I think of the warmth and comfort that spread through my body when I decided to stop laboring in the shower and go back to the bed. A nurse wrapped a warm, scratchy hospital blanket around my body and I immediately relaxed.  I’m still thinking about how good that scratchy warmth felt in that moment.

And I think of you. I think of how the midwife asked dad to announce your gender and how dad just looked at me with a smile and nodded while saying “it’s a girl,’ confirming what we had already known to be true. I think of how I held you to my chest, noticing your tiny, delicate ribcage, which felt impossibly small to me. I think of your bright red skin and how your right ear was completely folded in half. I think of your miniature fingers and toes, and how your dad and I were tickled by your strawberry blond hair.

I think of how exhausted and exhilarated and empowered I felt at the end of that day.  Little Love, I was so tired that I was shaking, but also so flooded with what felt to be supernatural energy. I think of the peace that surrounded the entire day – how calm our room was and how it felt like a pleasant quietness settled on me after you were born. I think of my intense craving for sugar and how I gulped several apple juice boxes. I think of the dignity my labor and delivery nurse offered me even as she helped me into my hospital-issued mesh underwear. I think of my parents, who came as soon as they were called, over the moon to meet you and hold you.

And I think about how that pain, like much of the pain in life, feels like the star of the show when you are experiencing it. It’s hard to think of anything else. It shows up forcefully and takes over, demanding your attention. But then it leaves and it no longer requires your time, energy or thoughts. Like with your birth, when I reflect on the painful seasons of my life, I don’t think of the pain. I think of the people who never left my side and the ones who could help to guide me through. I think of the bliss of ordinary comforts that I probably would never have noticed if it weren’t for the pain. And I think of the new life that came after the pain.