ten months ago today

Sitting quietly in my office this morning, enjoying the much-needed, long-waited lull in work, I glanced up at my wall calendar. My eyes landed on the 11th. Tomorrow. In one day, my daughter will be ten months old. Ten! I had been so busy these last several weeks that I didn’t even realize it was almost here! Every monthly milestone has been emotional for me – I both marvel and mourn how quickly she’s growing, I delight in her new developments, I recall the time we’ve shared so far, and I always, always, always remember the period surrounding her birth. Sometimes I feel triumph - I went through so very much to bring her in the world and was so much stronger than I knew I could be; I dipped into the deep, dark pools of post-partum depression and have finally started to come out on the other end! Often, however, I feel defeat and regret. Nothing about her birth went as I had hoped. Indeed, it was my worst nightmare. Today, the day before her ten month mark, I find myself mired in those memories.

Ten months ago tomorrow, my treasured, beloved daughter entered this world and forever transformed my life. Ten months ago today, I was in the throes of labor. I was reaching the halfway point. At this time during that day ten months ago, everything was good. While the labor had been difficult, we didn’t yet know that something was wrong. I was tired, but optimistic. I was unafraid and excited for that final, climactic moment when I would meet and hold my daughter in my arms. I envisioned holding my precious bundle at my chest, gazing into her eyes, weeping with joy and relief as my husband held both of us close. I – and everyone there – felt that moment was near. But then the hours slowly rolled past…

I don’t remember the moment things “got bad.” Upon reflection, there was a very distinct transition, though. While everything seemed beautiful and normal on the outside, around mid-day ten months ago something was wrong on the inside. Fear bubbled up inside of me, threatening to drown out my confidence and excitement. I tried to push it aside. During one surge, while I was reminding myself with gritted teeth “I can do this,” a still, small, crystalline voice spoke in my head – “Something is wrong. You can’t do this.” Never before had I entertained such a thought – never during the pregnancy and never during the labor. But it was as clear and pronounced as someone quietly speaking in my ear. I fought it, arguing with myself that I could do it. I told myself that it was just fear and kept trying to push it away.

That voice wouldn’t stop. During periods of confidence and strength – when I was saying and truly believing “I can do this!” – it would come out of nowhere – “Something is wrong. You can’t do this.” This is when things “got bad.” The labor got increasingly painful. While I had no illusions that labor would be painless and easy, I knew it wasn’t supposed to feel like that. My pelvis felt like shattered glass. I was in agony, beyond agony. Something WAS wrong. But I wouldn’t listen. I kept pushing, kept fighting, kept screaming. No no no no no! Nothing is wrong! I WILL have this baby! I HAVE to have this baby. But she was stuck – shoulder dystocia, though we didn’t know that at the time. It took her going into distress, screaming the only way she could that she needed help.

So at 1 am, ten months ago tomorrow, Squirt was born via emergency cesarean in the hospital I had shunned several months prior. She was pried free of my pelvis and lifted from my belly. I couldn’t see. But I could hear. She was screaming. She was terrified. She was cold. They immediately took her into a corner out of my sight and roughly cleaned her and suctioned her. I heard machines, I heard talking, and above all, I heard her screaming – I will never forget those screams. I will never forget that I wasn’t allowed to hold her, my beloved girl. That beautiful birth I envisioned, that beautiful transition into our new lives together, was gone. At the most important time when we should have been together, we were separated. There was no bliss, no joy, no ceremony. There was fear, defeat, and isolation. My husband stayed with our daughter as they whisked her into the NICU and I laid quietly in the operating room as the surgeon put me back together. At a time when I should have been blissfully intertwined with my daughter and husband, I was in a stark, cold room alone. While the room had been a buzz of voices and activity moments before, it became deathly quiet. I felt cold, empty, alone. I was left alone with my thoughts, which I quickly choked out. They were too much, too loud in that empty space. My feelings were too much, too intense. So I laid in silence, no longer connected to my heart, my daughter.    

So, tomorrow marks the tenth month since that day. In two short months it will be a year. The anniversary of Squirt’s birth – her birthday. It is, most certainly, a joyous occasion! But I know, at least within me, it won’t be just joy. The day of her birth was not the joyful experience every mother deserves. We lost our beautiful rite of passage – her birth into this world and my birth as a mother. I have this in mind as I begin to think about her upcoming birthday. I want to do something very special to commemorate such a sacred day. I want to do something that will symbolize that transition we lost. I want to do something beautiful and treasured to overlay positive, joyful memories on top of the fearful, negative experiences of her birth. I just don’t know what… She is the most precious creature, the most beautiful human. She deserves a truly happy, happy birthday.

So bright-eyed and curious.